It’s so sharp it could kill you.
Every year it snows, and the icicles hang down from the roof.
They are beautiful, these icy teeth.
Some are small, stubby and murky. The water creating them dirty and brackish.
Some shine, glinting like crystal. Almost as if you were looking through warped glass.
Many are thin and easily broken. A quick snap of her hand and they rain down all over the frozen ground.
The perfect murder weapons.
One is a behemoth, breathtaking and deadly sharp.
Even after all these years, she likes these the best.
She breaks the giant icicle at the thickest part, hand tingling with the cold and examines her prize.
Ice pick sharp.
If she stabs someone will they die?
The ice would melt, leaving behind nothing but a bleeding wound and a chilly puddle.
Her laugh echoes in the quiet created by a snow-filled day. Nothing moves in the yard, there are no children outside playing, no cars driving up and down the street. Just the oppressive silence of a perfect winter’s day.
She must knock the icicles off the house, they could be dangerous and fall on her kids or damage their car. If nothing else, it will warm up soon. She doesn’t want to get dripped on every time she walks out the front door.
Just because it’s a chore doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.
She shivers in her coat, turning the now melting ice in her hands. She grew up somewhere it never snowed. She was an adult before she spent her first winter somewhere with ice and snow. What would she have done with such a prize as a child?
Throw it!
Of course, she wouldn’t murder someone with an icicle, but that’s not the only thing it’s suitable for.
She glances left and right. Is anyone watching? Her hand is getting colder by the minute. Yes, as a child she would have thrown this. Made a game with her sisters.
“Who can get theirs the farthest?” She whispers.
A grin splays over her face, lips numb as the chill in the air intensifies.
It’s a javelin, now, not a murder weapon.
Raising an arm back like a Greek Olympian of old, she hurls it towards the fence. The icicle arcs, reflecting light, a shining frozen spear that flies.
The projectile shatters against the fence and lands in chunks, dotting the snow with a delightful crunch and thud.
She breaks off another one and flings it into the air, it makes it over the fence and hits the snow-covered road with a soft plop. She wonders if she can hit the sidewalk across the street.
The sky gets darker with each moment and the wind picks up. The quiet starts to fill with noise, more inclement weather is soon to arrive.
She throws one more icicle, launching it high. Her body jiggles with a victory dance as the icy spike makes it to the sidewalk. She pumps a fist twice into the air and a giggle escapes her mouth. She feels ten years old again.
She turns, with a sigh, towards the warmth of home and family. There is sadness in her chest now that her chore is completed.
But… it’s freezing, and there are no more icicles.
Renee Lake bisexual Puerto Rican writer from Utah. She loves bats and is passionate about women’s reproductive rights.
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