Glide, Twirl

A piece of flash fiction I wrote, inspired by this year's never ending winter (blah).

The subway car emerges from underground, crackling over the track-laid bridge, slipping over the Charles River, which is encased with ice. Native Bostonians don’t take their eyes from their NYT bestsellers to notice the view. But I look through the scratched plastic windows towards the sun setting over the river, my soul slipping down to the banks.

My feet crunch through the week-old snow, which comes up to my thighs. I shove each leg ahead, pushing against the snow, my upper body leaning forward against the chilled wind. My face is red and chapped. My fingers are tingling, the pink woolen fluff of my mittens providing little protection. I fall in once, my arms and face plunging through the crusty snow, and I struggle to right myself, brushing snow out of my eyes with the wool. It stings. I press onward.

The brink of the river meets the edge of the snow in an icy fusion. I stop. I stare into the surface. In 4th grade science, Mrs. Hall said fish could still survive in rivers that had frozen over, residing in the warmer waters near the bottom. I wonder what the fish do during the winter, all alone in the dark. I place my left foot on the ice, my right foot lingering on the snow. I push off the bank. I glide forward, leaving curvy foot trails in the thin snow overlay of the ice. I never learned to ice skate, but ice gliding is easy. Ice gliding – maybe I will pitch that idea to the people at Frog Pond. I go to my tiptoes and twirl on the ice, then glide.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

I extend my arms, elbows curved, hands above my head. I form a V with my feet, heels together, toes wide apart. I pliae. I bend my knees, then push my toes against the tips of my boots, my calf muscles thrusting me upward, away from the ice.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

The ice encasing bursts, the snow overlay exploding upward into the dimming sunlight. I flail in the water. My fingertips brush the ice but I cannot grip it. I strain for the surface. I kick towards the light. But it does not matter. I glide towards the bottom, gravity pulling me to the depths. I do not fight it. Mrs. Hall was right – it is warmer near the bottom.

The ice shards fuse together again during the cold of the night. The snow settles. I twirl with the fish.