Old Man Winter was getting tired of Abigail. He absently drew spirals of frost on the table with a finger as he glared at her image in his snowglobe. He’d sent snow, and hail, and ice and even a good drenching rain and still she plodded up his mountain.

The tiny blob of yellow bobbing around in the snow made him think of crocuses, and he hated crocuses. Stupid flowers, popping up at the first slim chance that he had retreated back to his mountain top for the summer. This was his domain and he’d be boiled alive before he let such an obnoxiously colored creature waltz on through. He leaned forward and studied the yellow shape thoughtfully.

Perhaps it was time to try something a little more serious.