The Ides of MarchMature

The early months of winter had come and gone. January and February were forever ago. December was a distant memory. By now the world was well into March. The mercury was rising, and dear old Snowden Smith, playing the resident snowman in the park, was starting to feel the heat. Unlike the one he had felt in his corn cob pipe, or the coals of his smile. He could feel it in his flakes. The reconnaissance mission was over.

But what was to be done? What could he do? thought Snowden. Snowden was of course, white as the driven snow, and was as driven as the snow was white. He would try to escape. With his mismatched Nordic gloves, blue beret, green tartan scarf, and maple tree arms, he was truly a man of the world, so he had no problem with running away. It mattered not that he had no legs, thought he, he wouldn’t become a puddle. For he was a survivor. He listened to what the weather forecasters had to say, because he was no Caesar, he would not die on the Ides of March.

In the night, when no one could suspect, one as quiet as the night before Christmas, he moved north, rolling and rolling as fast as he could, careful not to trip up. By midnight he had slid to the outskirts of town, and by dawn the surrounding woods.

Snowden warbled over to an unsuspecting spruce, tall and antenna-shaped, and opened up a panel hidden in the bark. There was a radio there, and he barked into it, “Come in Polar Bear, this Jack Frost, I repeat, Jack Frost. Recon is complete, and warm weather is moving in. Request immediate evac, over.”

“Roger that, Jack Frost,” came the muffled reply, “sit tight, we’ll have a sleigh out there in half an hour. Over and out.”

He put the radio back in its place. After some time, with his carrot nose, he smelled something. Something he had not smelled since…

“Snowden!” came the shout.

Snowden turned and saw it was indeed who he thought it was. Brutus. A rogue agent, standing there with his crooked, rotten turnip nose. And he had a gun pointed right at Snowden.

“Ah,” Snowden said, keeping his cool, “The spy who came in from the cold?”

“You know why I’m here, Snowden. I’m getting on that sleigh!”

“Fine. I’ll take you in,” said Snowden quickly pulling his gun and pointing it his enemy. In the distance, Snowden started to hear the clatter of a reindeer's hoofs knocking against each other.

“Oh, you don’t understand, Snowden. Santa knows if you’ve been bad or good. You think he’s just going to welcome me back with open arms? I don’t think so. And that sleigh? Well, it’s not big enough for the both of us. Seriously, it’s too small.” Brutus quipped.

“Brutus, I’m not telling you again, put the gun down!”

The sleigh was almost hovering overhead now, and elves piloting were watching the scene unfold before them, both snowmen armed, prepared to kill.

“I don’t have a choice,” said Brutus.

“You don’t need to do this, Brutus! We were friends once!”

“No Snowden, I do have to do this! I’ve been stationed here since October. And I have to get out of here. I can’t die here.”

“Please. I can explain to Father Christmas… ”

“I don’t think so. You and I both made our choices. I chose wrong. And because of it, he’s not going to let me back to the Pole. So I need to make my own way to safety. Maybe Antarctica. Goodbye! Old friend!”

Anticipating the shot, Snowden fired, and a wave of flames shot out, melting Brutus into droplets of water.

When he looked back now, that was the one thing that Snowden wasn’t proud of. That was what he regretted most. 

A few seconds later, the sleigh had landed to let Snowden aboard, and they flew away to safety. And Snowden always wondered, was it worth it? and what was it was all about? Though most importantly, he wondered, what choice had Brutus made that Santa would never forgive?

The End

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