Here you go, guys. This is neoneco, live from the Kitchen Table.


When he wakes for the first time, and the last time, she can't bear not to touch him. She tousles his hair, she coos in his ears, she does everything she's ever wanted to done with a child, everything she's ever done with a child because he is a child, he's her child, and thank goodness, thank goodness, he's finally here.

He has a bit of hair that stands up, that defies gravity, and she likes that, because what better for a frost child, a snowflake to do, than to defy gravity?

And she swears to never let that hair, those strands, fall into his face, and be pulled to the ground, bound and caged by the confines of the warm, too warm, it's always too warm, dirt like so many other snowflakes. He belongs in the sky, she decides.

She tosses him in the air, throwing him hand to hand, and my, what large hands she has, or is he just small?, and he is happy. She thinks he is happy, and if he's not angry, then he's happy, right?

She only has ever been happy and angry, and he doesn't seem to be angry, so she laughs, her voice the soft, content noise, rather than the raring whooshes that is so often felt in this weather, this cool, nipping weather that has never felt so right until right now...