Small World

A frozen canvas surrounds me, pure and twinkling. My feet crunch in the snow, so beautiful it seems fake. Isn't it strange that we describe real things as so pretty they appear fake, and fake things as so pretty they look real? Trudging under the billowy grey skies, I make my way to the iron bench.

Time to meet Frank.

Brushing the confetti like flakes off the mahogany slats, I then smooth my woolen peacoat and sit down. Crossing my arms for warmth, I breathe into the air as if a dragon. Strangely, my breath does not become water vapor. In fact, nothing happens.

Ah, here's Frank. He smooths his peacoat, sits and breathes into the air.

"Weird, right Frank?"

Frank's silent.

"Frank, don't you think you should see your breath?"

Still, nothing. Though, Frank is a solemn fellow.

I peer at his profile. His face is hard, his eyes transfixed on something distant.

"Frank... Frank!"

Nothing.

"I mean, really Frank, you're just going to sit here and say nothing? Hello!?"

The nerve! Indignantly, I stand and storm off.

Glittery crystals cover everything, but none are falling now. The world is so silent it's almost ringing. My mind turns to Wilson Bentley and how he never found two snowflakes alike. "How can that be?" I wonder, bending to scoop a handful of identical snowflakes. Shrugging, I drop the snow and take two steps, but crash into a glass wall. Suddenly my world flips upside down, and is consumed in snowfall.