“Drivers are advised to drive carefully on all roads tonight due to fears of black ice”. The warning flitted menacingly within radio waves, halting all prior meteorological conversation at the table, rendering it foolish and trivial. Each diner felt a sudden embarrassment at their incongruous neglect. That they would obliviously dwell, surgically dissecting greasy chicken joints and constructing thermodynamically sound mashed potato igloos, in the midst of such real danger. This new update however proclaimed the arrival of an incalculably sinister threat. The ice tonight would be dressed in black. Shapeless, clandestine and merciless. Tinged with bitter, cold malice. Mr. Muddle shuddered ominously and pulled his collar tighter to his neck as if to blockade against imminent attacks from the frosted renegade. As they sat in chill silence it seemed as if the enemy was near, plotting and skulking, shrouded in the foggy cloth of the dark December eve. Tonight someone would certainly fall victim to its deathly camouflage. Crumpled steel gnarled, wreckage shrieks, the frosted breath of a faceless ambulance crew. The backdrop to the rotating blue lights, searching the scene for the killer. Mrs. Muddle wondered to herself if she would know the victim. Perhaps they were on her Christmas card list. Maybe they had a child in school with Blake or administered icing sugar smiles at the cake sale in the local community centre. What would she say about the deceased if the ensuing media influx were to thrust a sleet spotted microphone into her face? Could she conjure a satisfactory summary of this individual’s entire existence in a few short sentences? She would make sure to google search a template eulogy as soon as the wash-up had been done. The Lord giveth and The Lord taketh away she muttered neurotically to no one at all, preaching to an absent congregation.
(Winter 2010)
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