Thoughts on life, love and faith by Plasticmind.

Winter had settled on the tiny town of Loklan just about as thick as the snow that blanketed the village roofs. Mothers warmed young ones by brick fireplaces while fathers shoveled white stuff from the sidewalks. Children laughed small scarf-muffled laughs as they chased their frosty breath over powdered dales outside of town. The chill of winter that had subtly stolen away the rusty crispness of fall now nipped at their noses and rosy cheeks, while the town itself sat glimmering and sparkling like angel-silver tinsel.

Through frosty lenses, Kyle watched. He hugged his tattered yellow quilt tighter and watched the outside world through a solitary window; the cold inside hurt more than the biting draft. His tiny frame quivered instinctively. A mop of sandy blonde hair fell and hid his puffy eyes. Kyle sniffled then rubbed at the flowing tears.

At times he paused, lusting for a chance to live; desire, however, was quickly driven away with Gertie's stick. Gertie always said that "a boy should na' be foolin' with such fiddelry as runnin' like mad in tha' cold." Kyle knew it was more than just the cold. Gertie—she never let the townsfolk see him because of his cripple leg. She was his only relative and after his parents were killed at sea she was forced to take him in.

He paused for a moment. The children outside continued to run and laugh and play and throw snowballs and build forts and make angels and live their frosty childhood out while he sat in loneliness. He looked down at the straight black crutch on the floor. “If only I could…”

“Wha’ is this?” Kyle jumped at the witchy voice and turned. All three hundred pounds of Gertie stood impatiently in the doorway. Rounded wrinkles pushed and shoved as she furrowed her brow. Her tattered dress revealed her folds.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I was just resting.”

Gertie squinted her tiny eyes so they gleamed black. “Restin’ is far nighttime. Does it look a’tall like nighttime to ya’?” She crossed her arms and stared at him with a grim, hairy face.

“No ma’am.” He examined the cracked plaster on the wall.

“Now go an’ get us some mahr wood far tha’ fire. Ya’ could freeze tha’ devil ‘imself it’s sa’ cold in here.” She turned her gigantic form around and stomped down the hallway, muttering profanities.

He wiped at his eyes for a moment, then picked up his wooden crutch and limped down the hall.

Outside, Kyle looked up at a black-tailed hawk in the sky. How he longed to be like that hawk, soaring and swooping on the frigid wind. The same wind that blistered and colored his cheeks and nose lifted the bird high into the eternally blue sky. What must the birds feel suspended high above this dreariness? Do they realize the wonder it is and the beauty of the rolling hills and sparkling water below? Do they marvel at the canvas of miracles below as they hang between earth and heaven?

All of this was silliness, he scolded himself. There was no magic in staring all day at the sky; nothing could bring him what he really wanted. He sat down on a slice of maple and cried. The tears warmed his icy cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away; he buried his face in his arms as if to hide them from the snow. The battle raged inside - the desire to dream crushed by the grown-up within that knew better.

A hiss interrupted his sobs. He looked up with tear-brimmed eyes, scanning the yard. A few feet from where he was sitting, a small hole dotted the uninterrupted whiteness. Kyle hoisted himself against his crutch and crunched over to investigate. A small glimmering object no larger than a jellybean had dissolved the packed snow away to bare grass. Kyle peered curiously down into the hole, and after much debate, pulled the silver jellybean from its icy encasement.