Snowbabies Read online

chewed up tree. The squirrel did a funny little dance, kicking it’s icy legs outwards and shaking it’s white snowy body from side to side, then rolled through the snow until it bumped into another tree. It ran up the tree, found a branch to run out onto, then sat down and clapped it’s front paws together. The beaver then waddled closer to the chewed up tree and chipped away one last time. The tree came crashing down and smashed the snowy letters into a thousand bits.

  The beaver nodded it’s head up and down, happy with the job it had done. Also happy was the squirrel, who grabbed onto the branch and twirled around and around, like a gymnast on the high bars. The hunter watched, speechless and amazed, the squirrel twirling so fast it was just a white blur. Finally the squirrel let go and launched itself forward, flipping end over end, then sticking a perfect landing. The squirrel then bowed in the hunter’s direction. A second later it ran off, the slower moving beaver following, until finally both snowbabies were out of sight.

  The hunter stumbled backwards and sat on the edge of his bed. He breathed in and out hard and fast, trying to make sense of what he thought he saw. Or what he did see. Reality, or a dream, he couldn’t figure it out. All he knew was that he was still cold, and touching his cheeks he could still feel the lines. He knew he watched a crazy looking squirrel and beaver make a tree fall onto a word made of snow and ice. Then he realized what it meant. The word was PROMISE, and the tree had fallen and totally broken the word. A broken promise. Something he himself did earlier in the day. Didn’t he promise to not be an illegal hunter? To not hunt before the season began? And when he had shot and killed the helpless fox, he had broken the promise. Broken it clean, just like the tree had done to the word. The hunter groaned, shivered some more, then fell asleep.

  Saturday Night: Target Practice

  The hunter woke up from a deep and dreamless nap when he heard someone calling his name. His mother was calling him for dinner. He could see it was dark outside. He had slept through the whole afternoon, something he had never done before, even the few times he stayed home from school when he was sick. He ignored his mother’s calls, and after a while she stopped.

  It didn’t take long for everything that had happened to come rushing back to him. He was in such a deep sleep he had almost forgotten. He had a hard time trying to make himself believe the snowbabies were real. But didn’t he see everything with his own eyes? Didn’t he feel the ice cold chillness that came from his cheeks and went right to his bones? Wasn’t he the one that made those promises? And he had already broken one. Maybe, he tried to tell himself, maybe everything that had happened was just a trick of the freezing cold weather, a trick of all that endless snow and ice out in the fields. It was nothing but a very realistic bad dream, that’s all. He gingerly touched his cheek. The bumpy feeling was gone. He had to make sure, so he flung off his blankets and went into the bathroom.

  He was almost afraid to turn the bathroom light on. He flicked the light switch on and looked into the mirror. The lines were still there. Now they were smooth. He had to do something to cover them up. He opened the medicine cabinet and found an old half empty bottle of his mother’s makeup. He rubbed some on his fingers and then across his cheeks, working the makeup in until the lines were completely hidden. Good enough, he thought, nobody will ever notice.

  The hunter went back to his bedroom. He wasn’t hungry and he wasn’t in the mood to watch TV, so looking for something to do he reached under his bed and took the rifle from it’s box. He held it in his hands, admiring the shiny metal barrel and nice looking wood handle. It really was a nice rifle. A nice rifle that he had stolen. He grinned, remembering how easy it was to break into Glimpy’s store. Three nights ago he had snuck out of the house at two o’clock in the morning. Then he had broken through Glimpy’s back door, the back door that only had one thin metal lock, a lock that was easy to snap off with just regular heavy duty pliers. A quick snap and there he was, inside the store. So very easy. He knew exactly where to go to get the rifle he wanted. A few minutes later he was done, running back home, happy as can be, his brand new expensive rifle tucked under his arm.

  His grin turned to a frown when he also remembered that it was snowing on the way back, not a heavy storm, but a light steady snowfall. It wasn’t snowing when he left for Glimpy’s so he hadn’t bothered to bring a hat. By the time he reached his own back door he was covered with icy snowflakes. Once he had snuck back into his bedroom the snow had begun to melt, making him cold and wet, and instead of feeling happy about such an easy robbery he remembered how he felt damp and miserable.

  Oh well, the hunter thought, no need to worry about any bad feelings now, especially since it was in the past. He decided now was a good time to have a little target practice. He made sure the safety was on, just in case, another mark of a true hunter, to always be careful when handling any kind of gun, especially indoors. He clicked open the chamber and made sure there were no bullets. The chamber was empty, like it should be. The hunter knew it should only have real bullets in it when he was outside and hunting for real.

  The hunter had also stolen a few packages of rubber bullets from Glimpy’s. This was the perfect time to use a few. The rubber bullets were so soft they wouldn’t do any damage at all. His mother wouldn’t bother him, she would be too busy doing laundry or cleaning or watching television.

  His bedroom was pretty large, so if he got into position at one end he could put a target on the farthest wall and it would be a good distance. He drew a large red heart on a piece of paper and taped it to the wall. He went to the other side of his bedroom and got into his favorite hunting stance by kneeling down on one knee. He loaded five rubber bullets in the chamber. He clicked the safety off, held the rifle firmly in a shooting position, put his eye to the rifle’s sight, and aimed at the red heart. Before he pulled the trigger the hunter practiced his breathing, holding it for as long as he could while he took aim, then letting it out. Breathing in and out while firing could upset a true hunter’s aim. It was always best to be as still as possible when aiming and shooting.

  After a minute the hunter was ready to pull the trigger. He held his breath. The red heart was squarely in the rifle’s sight. The hunter thought if this was real it would be a one shot, instant kill. He squeezed the trigger and instead of a bullet firing out the rifle made a dull clicking sound. He re-aimed and pulled the trigger again, but the rifle refused to fire, again doing nothing but making an annoying clicking sound.

  The hunter tried one more time but nothing happened except for his brand new, stolen, expensive rifle making a metal clicking sound. He had no idea what was wrong. He opened the chamber and the rubber bullets were there, but they were all jammed up, twisted and bent, now totally useless. He put the safety on and turned the rifle around so he could look down the barrel. He couldn’t see anything but blackness. Was something causing the rifle to be all jammed up? He shook it hard, and heard a slight rattling coming from the barrel. He tapped the barrel on the wooden floor and out came an acorn. He tapped harder and a few more acorns rolled out. Acorns? How on earth did they get stuck inside his rifle? He tapped and tapped until at least twenty more small acorns came out. They must’ve been so tightly packed into the barrel that no matter what, the rifle wouldn’t fire. He sat on his bed, holding the rifle in his lap. Okay, he thought, there must be a good reason. Maybe while he was out hunting he had tripped and his rifle fell down, barrel first, onto a pile of acorns. He didn’t remember anything like that happening, but what other reason could there be. Or … maybe … could it be the snowbaby squirrel? At that exact moment he thought he heard what sounded like high pitched laughter right outside his window. He jumped up, the rifle falling to the floor. He ripped open his curtains and looked out. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he could almost swear he saw a small white blur jump off the window ledge. The blur looked like … like … a squirrel. A crazy looking whitish squirrel, giggling like mad as it ran off into the dark night.

  The hunter shook his head. He didn’t kn
ow what to think. Was it another crazy trick of the snow and cold? He turned and stared at the pile of acorns on the floor. They were real, that was for sure. He scooped up every last acorn and dumped them in his garbage can.

  Maybe the best thing he could possibly do was to forget what just happened. He put the rifle in it’s box and slid it back under his bed. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for target practice anymore. It wasn’t too late, so he called Nick, one of his older friends who had a car. Nick said he’d be over in about an hour with a couple of buddies, and they would hang out and cruise around for the rest of the night.

  Sunday Morning: A Few Visitors

  The hunter woke up from another deep sleep. An empty sleep, one without any dreams. Last thing he remembered was coming home about two o’clock in the morning, a little drunk from a few beers his older friends had bought him. He didn’t even bother to undress when he plopped down onto his bed, and he fell asleep right away, still wearing his heavy jacket and boots. The makeup he used to cover the white lines on his cheeks had done it’s job and lasted