Two for Tuesday: Blog Interviews
Greetings Prosers,
Welcome to this week’s instalment of Two for Tuesday, where we share two things we believe you should feast your eyes upon within the world of Prose.
This week is the turn of Prose Partner Paul (@PaulDChambers) who is sharing snippets of two articles from the past from our blog site. For those new to Prose, you may be unaware that we have a beautiful blog site as well as this lovely reading and writing community.
On the site we have hundreds of articles, interviews, advice and sometimes just some lists of lovely writerly things like writing huts and libraries. The link to the blog site is attached so that you can peruse at your leisure. Paul explains what he is sharing and why:
The first article excerpt I’m sharing is an interview with one of my author heroes. He writes under the name of Michael Marshall Smith and Michael Marshall and is one of my top three favourite living authors. They say that you shouldn’t meet your heroes, and technically I didn’t; but we messaged a while and he turned out to be an absolute gentleman and top bloke all round. Do check out the whole interview. He rocks.
P: The Straw Men series of books blew many people away with its deeply disturbing, and delicious darkness. We asked Smith what he thought of the world’s fascination with all things evil.
M: “I think it’s always been that way. I’ll bet that ninety-five percent of the tales told around neolithic cave fires were about bad men and strange women and dark nights and the things that can happen in them. Warnings.”
“We all have a sense of the dark currents that swirl around and within us, and that’s what gave rise to myth and religion in the first place: people reaching for metaphors to unlock the internal and external struggles in our lives, the interplay of fate and freewill and destiny.”
“So much of this stuff is occluded from us on a conscious level, too, which is why we need story to dramatise and externalize. The sense that Something Is Going On, behind the scenes or outside our control, is inherent to the human condition because so much of our own nature is hidden to us. I suspect also that the relative comfort — and cushioning — of so much of the world’s entertainment-consuming public gives time to consider such matters, along with a nagging feeling that something, somewhere is coming for them.”
“We’re waiting for the hammer to fall. While we wait, let’s imagine what kind of hammer it’s going to be.”
The second interview I’m sharing a taster from is one where Prose Partner Sammie interviewed the very lovely author of The Martian, Andy Weir. Another chap who turned out to be extremely humble and welcoming to Sammie. As always, we try to cover the intelligent basics that people want to read about, but we also try to ask some more inane questions. Again, you should check out the whole thing, it’s awesome!
P: Tell me about journey behind the last word you typed, to The Martian rights being sold to Crown Publishing Group, then onto Ridley Scott for film adaptation.
A: "Originally the book was just a serial I posted a chapter at a time to my website. Once the book was done, people started requesting that I make an e-book version so they didn’t have to read it in a web browser. So I did and posted it to my site. Then other people emailed saying they want to read the e-book, but they aren’t technically savvy and don’t know how to download a file from the internet and put it on their e-reader. They requested I make a Kindle version they could just get through Amazon. So I did that as well. I set the price at Amazon’s minimum allowable price of $0.99. More people bought the book from Amazon than downloaded it for free from my website. Amazon has a truly amazing reach into the readership market.”
“The book sold very well and made its way up various top-seller lists on Amazon. That got the attention of Julian Pavia at Crown. He told his colleague David Fugate (a literary agent) about it. David ended up becoming my agent and Julian offered me a book deal. It was a whirlwind of activity because 20th Century Fox optioned the movie rights that same week.”
Do please go to the blog site blog.theprose.com and check these and other articles out.
We've met authors, screenwriters, bands, composers, comedians, bookstores and many, many more. There’s plenty of reading for you there. In the meantime, enjoy your wordy worlds.
Until next Tuesday,
Prose
you changed
we used to hold the stars together
chanting love to the sky
now you've turned all bitter
making rain feel like cries
the summer dew gently held our blanket
picnics under the forever sky
now you breathe harder
coughing smoke into our kisses
and screaming that you've arrived
knocking pebbles at my window
singing to me late at night
now you say you're too tired to love
that it's too difficult to rise
in church I saw you in the pews
speaking to your special God
now I hear your deepest prayers
asking for enough money for another pack
you used to whisper that you loved me
now your silence speaks as to why
the money that I used to have
was slowly leaking
giving reason to help you
no asking why
your empty loving melts into my heart
you can no longer look into my eyes
bleeding lips
please
i need to know
what was the purpose of your lie
for it only served to divide
i used to blindly love
and kiss with my eyes closed
but all these false stories
have come to remind me
of all the lacking in you and I
your adoration has turned to lust
with no true reason under the crust
can't you stop this
we're caving in
you're making me play hookey
just to pay for your sins
out on the street is where our love lies
supported by strange men
and blatant lies
where we once made love
has become your den
while i stand outside in the frozen rain
and wait for a man in a cab
to call my name
so I can show you once again
how much I loved you
throwing on the table
some dollar bills
you heal me with scabs from your losses and swoons
A long time in a galaxy far away, there lived a girl. She had chestnut hair and laughing eyes. She liked to gaze up at the stars, and on sunny days she would sing.
Not so long ago in a galaxy not so far away, there lived a young woman. She had ran away from home, and lived on the verge of nothing. She walked a line between good and wrong. But she still looked at the stars, and she still sang, her voice rising in the air and gathering in one man's heart. She fell in love.
Years ago in a galaxy that is neighboring to us, there lived a woman. She had a house, and she lived with her husband and two kids. Sometimes they would go outside in the nighttime and the woman would show them the constellations. On sunny days, she taught them to sing.
A month ago on the other side of the world, there lived an old woman. She had watched her children grow up and have children of their own. Her husband had died. She was still able to look up at the stars, but she couldn't sing anymore.
Yesterday in a the small town I live in, there was a dead woman in a coffin. It had been a small funeral; only family members and a few friends. She couldn't sing. And her eyes were closed. The night before had been the last time she had seen the old, ancient stars.
Friday Feature: @Eusorph
We’re very pleased to be starting the Friday Feature up again, where we showcase Prosers weekly and allow them to share details about themselves as well as what makes them tick.
Our first Proser is Lapo Melzi, who you can find on Prose under the username @Eusorph. He lives in a small town near the Italian Alps called Vergiate, roughly translated as Greentown, that sits in a national park with wonderful woods and lakes.
“My house was a farm full of all sorts of animals when I was little and it later became a horse riding school for many years. I had the luck to grow up surrounded by animals and learned to trust, appreciate and love them. The woods remain the place where I always feel at home and the mountains are still my favorite hiking ground.”
Sounds beautiful. We ask what Lapo’s career is there. He explains: “After a career in advertising and independent Film, due to health issues, I am back in my hometown and work as a restaurateur in the family business. Although I have forfeited my previous career, I have never given up on my stories and what I really want is to be a full-time author.
Always intrigued about this, we prompt him to explain what his relationship with writing is and how it’s evolved? “I started writing poetry when I was in high school. That was my first ever creative endeavor and one that made me aware of my abilities. It wasn’t until my twenties though that I tried my hand at stories. I was attending Film School in Milan then and nobody wanted to write what I wanted to direct. I never thought I could write fiction (I had too much respect for books) but I really wanted to tell more imaginative stories than those that were given to me by the screenwriting students at my school. So, I did my best and wrote my first scripts. It was difficult, but scripts are very bare bones and technical, so I didn’t feel daunted as I would if I had tried to write a book. Then I just kept on writing and during the years I discovered that was my real instinct: to sit down and write stories.”
“The conscious decision of being a fiction author came much later, only about three years ago, because of my second bout of cancer--talk about a blessing in disguise! My first encounter with big C happened during my thesis year in the Film Department at NYU. At that time, I simply let it pass over me and concentrated on shooting and finishing my thesis—it did scare me, but it didn’t make me stop and think too much. The second time, almost five years later, during a routine exam and at the time when I was about to be considered “out of danger” had a very different effect on me. I realized that at any time in the future I could die quite suddenly and if that happened I couldn’t afford to go without having written my stories. In my opinion, the real tragedy in life is not dying--that we all have to do--but it is dying without having done what we have at heart. So, I said “the hell” to everything that wasn’t what I really wanted to do. I had been writing scripts for about fifteen years by then and was really tired of the limitations imposed by Film. In particular, I was tired of being obliged to write only what I could produce and I was yearning to delve into the internal emotional and psychological life of my characters. I also had a hunch that I would write better novels than scripts by then. But it was just a hunch, because I didn’t have the slightest idea whether I could actually write interesting prose. So, I gave up Film for good, sat down and wrote my novel Horse Sense. It’s been the best decision I have ever taken in my life. The one I don’t have any regrets about.”
Prose asks Lapo to discuss the value that reading adds to both his personal and professional life. He tells us: “I haven’t read a book with my eyes in more than twenty years, because they get too sore too quickly and give me headache. Instead, about fifteen years ago I discovered Audiobooks and was hooked right away. I always loved oral storytelling and find Audiobooks far superior to audio-less books: you can read them while you also do something else, filling more waking hours than paper books; they let you visualize far more, because your eyes are not busy reading text; and finally you have some of the best actors and voice actors reading the story you love--try listening to Jeremy Irons reading Lolita or Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter and tell me if they don’t sound better than the voice in your head!”
“When I started writing I had to give up reading, because I constantly found myself filling the gaps in my stories with material from other people’s books and I hated it. Some people say that artists usually have to usually start by imitating someone else they admire. I don’t believe and I think it’s a bad exercise. Instead, writers should start immediately to try and find their own voices--it’s painful, but important.”
“Now, I read about three to four book a month, both fiction and non fiction. They make my life less boring and open my mind to the world, letting me learn new things each time. As an author, they offer a insight into other authors’ styles, plot and dramatic devices, story ideas, dialogue rendition. Also, given the incredible variety of styles, topics and the fact that even books that are considered classics are very far from being flawless, they provide a lot of encouragement in my endeavors and lessen my sometimes crippling perfectionism.
We ask what can we look forward to in future posts and what he is working on now. He explains: “Right now, I am working on my second book entitled “Quigley,” the story of a New York pet flying squirrel, who abandons the safety of his apartment in order to save the squirrels of Central Park from the tyranny of murder of crows with the help of an ex-experiment rat, embarking in a journey that will either shred him to pieces or transform him forever. The novel is the direct adaptation of my award winning screenplay “Quigley.”
“After that will be the turn of “Romeo Vs. Juliet,” a pastiche adaptation of the beloved Shakespeare’s story set in a Verona where Renassaince and modern times coexist and that answer on a comedic vein the question: what would have happened if the two too-young-to-be-married lovers had survived?”
“Then it will be the turn of “Wassapu,” a Dickensian story of a heartless jackelope-riding villainous creature that robs all the other animals of the Dome Forest of their food and leaves only misery in her path. One day though, she is lured by a cookie to a great city, where she butts head with the score of homeless orphan street urchins that fills its streets and finds out she isn’t the only one who has been robbed of her heart and hopes. After this, there are already other planned stories, but I don’t want to bore you.”
We like flattery, so we want to know what Lapo loves about TheProse.com? “The greatest challenge for an independent author is visibility. Prose is a great way to reach a wider audience that otherwise would never be acquainted with my work. It also gives me the opportunity to get in touch with other fellow authors and start an artistic conversation with them.”
“The Prose team seems genuinely interesting in promoting its members unlike other platforms, where you are ignored unless you pull 1m views. I think this is great and a great added value for readers, who can count on Prose to showcase fresh and different authors, instead of pushing more of the same.”
It’s all true, and thank you. Tying in with our feature on our blog site, we ask if there is one book that he would recommend everybody should read before they die. His answer: “One is not enough :-) The Lord of the Rings, Dune, Seabiscuit an American Legend, Cyrano de Bergerac and The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.”
Is there an unsung hero who got him into reading and/or writing? “I don’t know about unsung, but it was J.R.R. Tolkien for me. For two reasons. The first is that I was fourteen when I read the Lord of the Rings—it was the first book that I chose and bought by myself—and it changed my life. I think I should have known that one day I would try to become an author, because to this day, I still have burnt in my memory the image of when I put down the Lord of the Rings in the left shelf of my old wood and glass bookshelf and I thought, “This is what I would like to write.” The thing is, though, that I had never written anything before, nor I was planning to and I didn’t even ever show any aptitude to writing stories at that point. It was just a purely instinctual thought that rose to the surface. Now I know why it surfaced. The second reason is that no other author that I know put so much work, research and invention in a story as he did. I profoundly admire his patience, dedication, strength of mind and imagination.”
We ask Lapo if there is anything else he wants to share with fellow Prosers. “Other than here on Prose, the most important place where you can find me is on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/LapoMelzi), where, if you like my work and want to see me become a full time author, you can donate a recurring tiny amount of money (as little as $0.25 per part) and become a Patron of the Arts. It’s like going back in times when Dickens published his novels in weekly installments: you get something great to read each week and the independent author can keep on being independent by earning a steady income that will enable him to write his next book.“
Thank you Lapo. We hope you enjoyed the return of our Friday feature as much as we did, as we’ll be back showcasing another Proser next week. Get in touch if you want to be added to the list, contact us on info@theprose.com
My breathing came in quick, rapid gulps. I clawed at the stone floor, at nothing, wanting everything, nothing... I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling, at the blinding lights, and I choked on loneliness... Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it back down. I ran my grimy fingers through my hair, and my breath hitched. I wanted warmth, I wanted comfort, I wanted... It didn't matter what I wanted. It was gone, all gone, and how long has it been? Three months? Six years? It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered, nothing... I turned over on my side and stroked the floor. It was stained in blood. How hard had I fought against it? I couldn't remember. I closed my eyes, and I sucked in a labored breath. I needed something. Anything. Something other than the cold gray floor and the same electric lights, the ones I woke up to every day. But really, did I sleep? Could I sleep? It didn't seem like it. I opened my eyes and gazed at the bloodstain. Whose was it? Could it be my mother's? My father's? Or maybe my sister's? Did it even matter? Maybe nothing mattered. Nothing at all... I sat up, every muscle in my body aching. Was my family dead? I stood up shakily, and leaned against the cold cement wall. I pressed my forehead against it and drew in a long breath. Everything... Was... Fine. I forced my gaze over to my left, and heaved. Bodies... Dead bodies. My family. I felt bile rise in my throat again, but this time I didn't force it down. I sunk to the ground. Why hadn't I noticed their rotting corpses? I crawled over to them. Human flesh... How long had it been since I had felt human flesh? I stroked my sister's hand. Cold. I threw up my head and wailed into the everlasting silence. No. No. I grabbed my mother's arm. Limp. I screamed, and, in desperation, grabbed my father. His blank eyes stared back at me. I threw him against the wall, and crumpled to the ground, pressing against my mother. I needed something living. Warm skin. Eyes that saw me. I clawed at my mother and sister, sobbing. "Come back! Get up!" They didn't. They lay there, unseeing, unfeeling. Dead.
Kisses, laughter, goofy grins
When you're in love everyone wins.
Sobbing, screaming, tearing at hair
When your heart is broken nobody's there.
Nobody's there to hold you tight
Nobody's there to kiss you good night.
But when gauze is plastered against the wound
And new love for someone has already bloomed
You haven't realized what you should have before
What you should have when you were loved no more
It's the subject that you have debated and debated
That, sadly, love is overrated.
The Shadow
"I... I have to protect..." The mother whispered as she squeezed her baby. "My child..."
The baby's face was red from crying, and he stuck his lip out. "Mama," he said. It was the only word he knew.
The mother pressed her back against the wall, her breathing harsh and heavy. As she patted her baby's back, she tried to imagine what life would be like without her precious child. She willed him to be quiet.
The baby said it again. Louder, this time. "Mama!"
"Shh, my darling," the mother whispered.
The baby's eyes were round as he pressed his head against his mother's chest.
The mother's breath caught in her throat as she saw it. The Shadow. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. 'It's not there,' she thought. 'It can't be there...' She ran her fingers through her baby's silky hair.
"Oh," the Shadow said. "How darling. A mother, desperately trying to save her baby." The Shadow clucked it's tongue. "That is so sad," it said mockingly. "Well, I guess-"
"Get away from us," the mother said, her voice shaky but firm. "Leave us be!"
"Oh, but that's not possible, my dear," the Shadow crooned. "Because, you see, you're here to save your husband, aren't you?" The Shadow laughed. "Princess saving knight, eh? Well, tell me, my love. Why did you take the baby with you? Mmm?"
The mother's eyes filled with tears. "I... I thought..." She whispered, kissing her baby's head.
"Yes, what did you think?" The Shadow urged her. "I beg you to tell me. This is quite interesting, really."
"I thought... I could get him to a safe place. My baby," the mother croaked. "I..." She stopped, for if she continued talking, she would cry.
"That's so... Tragic," the Shadow murmured. "So tragic, my darling. I almost feel sorry for you... Oh, who am I kidding?" The Shadow laughed coldly. "I'll kill you, now. And your baby, If I don't, you'll just cause more trouble than I need, at the moment."
"No, please!" The mother wailed. "Take me. Not my baby! Not. My. Baby!"
The Shadow shook it's head. "Can't be done, I believe. So sorry. I must not spare unneeded... Things. So. You'll have to come with me. The baby, too."
The mother's eyes widened, and a tear trickled down her cheek. "No," she said stubbornly.
The Shadow's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Oh, what do we have here? I haven't had such an... Unwilling customer for a while now."
The mother choked on a sob, and dropped to her knees. "I won't let you take my baby," she rasped. "I can't."
The Shadow raised an eyebrow. It lunged towards the woman, who had her arms locked around her baby. The Shadow grabbed the baby, and for a moment the mother caught the Shadow's gaze. She tugged on her child.
"Go away," she said. Tug. "Get away from us!" Tug. "LEAVE. US. BE!"
The Shadow's eyes flickered. "No." It pulled on the child, and pried him from his mother's arms. The baby let out a long wail, and flailed in the Shadow's arms.
The mother stumbled to her feet, tears streaming down her face. "Why are you doing this to us?" She screamed. "What do you want with my husband?"
"Oh, you know perfectly well what I want with your husband," the Shadow said softly. "I want to use him." It's eyes glittered coldly. "He, sweetheart, is the answer to everything." The Shadow stroked the baby's wet cheek. "He is the key."
The mother didn't say anything. She sucked in a breath and stumbled forward, reaching out towards her child. "My baby..." She croaked.
"You know what I'll do?" The Shadow cooed. "I'll spare your life for just a bit longer. And this brat's, too. I think you want to see your husband, yes?"
The mother, her eyes wide, looked at her feet. "Um..."
"Of course you do," the Shadow said, it's cold eyes glittering. "Come with me, my dear woman, and you'll see what has become of him." The Shadow grabbed the woman's arm, and yanked her forward.
They walked down the bright white halls in silence, except for when the baby would let out a feeble cry, and the mother would hold back sobs and wails.
Finally, after what seemed hours (although it could have just been minutes), they arrived at a grimy room.
The mother shuddered. Most of the Shadow's building had been clean, perfect, free of any sort of dust or dirt. Most of the Shadow's building had an essence of perfectness to it, something that made your skin crawl with unease.
Different. This was different.
The mother could hear agonized screams bouncing off the walls of the room, the gushing of something thick that sounded like blood.
This didn't make your skin crawl with unease. It made you want to curl up in a ball and slowly starve to death, to plunge a knife into your throat, anything, anything, to stop the screams.
"He's not in there," the mother said, shakily. "He can't be." She was aware of hot tears streaming down her face, but didn't bother to wipe them away.
The Shadow curled a hand around the woman's arm. "Think again," it breathed into her ear.
The mother jerked away from it, and let out a scream. "I hate you! I hate all of you, every one of you, GIVE ME BACK MY BABY!" She flailed her fists at the Shadow, but it just raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, but my dear," the Shadow protested, "you haven't seen your husband yet."
"I've... I've seen enough!" The mother sobbed. "Get me away from here!"
The Shadow's tongue flicked over it's lips. "Stubborn, are we? Well, well. Come on, then." He grabbed the mother's arm again, flung open the door to the room, and pushed her in.
The mother's breath caught in her throat when she saw the scene in front of her. "No," she gasped. "No, no." Tears blurred her vision, and she dropped to her knees. "No, no..."
"A wonderful sight, isn't it?" Came the Shadow smooth voice. "I have worked hard to create a system like this, my darling. And it is all thanks to your husband. See him over there? The one with the toddler?"
The mother forced herself to look up. Her husband was digging a knife into the child's chest, and blood spurted from the wound onto the floor. It was everywhere. Soldiers were plunging knives into people's chests, and blood splattered the floor.
"Do you want to know what they are doing?" The Shadow asked calmly, almost cheerfully, as if this were all a game.
"No," the mother whispered. The stench of blood was making her feel dizzy, and she rested her head in her hands.
"They," the Shadow said, ignoring the mother's feeble protests, "are digging out their souls."
"What?" The mother rasped. "How-?" She stopped. "My husband would never do this," she said.
"Of course your husband would never do that," the Shadow said. "No human, my dear, would ever do that. So," he said, "I yanked his soul from him. Quite stubborn, that husband of yours. A bit like you, I must say."
"Why... How..." The mother's mind was spinning with questions, none of which she wanted answers to. "Get me out of here," she whimpered.
The Shadow ignored her. "Well, my darling, humans with souls are quite... Vulnerable creatures. Most of them would refuse to kill someone, or torture someone, which creates a problem for me, you see." The Shadow folded his fingers together. "Look around you, at the people who are stabbing others, and snatching their souls. Look closely. At their eyes. What do you see?"
The mother forced her gaze to her husband. "He used to have green eyes," she whispered to herself. But now, in place of his green eyes, were empty, black pits, with not even a flicker of feeling in them. The mother turned away, choking on sobs.
"Right," the Shadow cooed. "Black pits. No souls to light them up. Unfeeling eyes only see murder and torture, which would make the perfect army, wouldn't you say?" The Shadow stroked the mother's hair as it talked, and the mother yanked it away from it.
"Army?" The mother murmured. "What do you mean?"
"An army of soulless human beings," the Shadow said. "Yes, it is just too perfect. No souls, no empathy. I keep their souls in jars, you see, because souls can never be destroyed altogether. Too bad, really." The Shadow stroked it's chin thoughtfully.
"An army?" The mother demanded. "Why?"
"Revenge, that's why." The Shadow's black pits for eyes narrowed. "The humans exiled me, they made me... This. And now, my dear, with an army, I can show them how it feels." A smirk curled on the Shadow's lips. "Although, without souls, they may find it quite... Unfeeling. Your husband was my first successful "guinea pig", you could say, my test subject. I owe it all to him, really."
"No," the mother choked.
"Yes," the Shadow said. "Although, they aren't really humans anymore, are that? No, humans without souls are merely echoes of humans, shells of them. So..." The Shadow's lips curled into a cruel smile. "I guess you could call them shadows."
"Winter, not yet," Autumn said. "WINTER!"
"What?" Winter said, groaning. Winter had silvery hair and icy blue eyes. Her skin was pale and a scowl was usually etched on her face.
Autumn had chestnut-brown skin, striking red hair, and brown eyes. He sighed. "It's not time for the Snow yet, Winter."
"That's not fair," Winter whined. "You've made it later than usual on purpose!"
"Stop speaking nonsense," Autumn sniffed.
"Well, it's true!" Winter growled. "I don't see why I can't just send down a couple snowflakes."
"Would you two stop fighting?" Spring asked. She had curly, light brown hair that was always messy, and bright green eyes. Freckles swarmed her face, making it a darker skin tone than the rest of her body.
"It really is quite annoying," Summer added. He had wavy blonde hair and deep blue eyes that sometimes seemed a stormy gray when he was angry.
"WINTER!" Autumn screeched. "Stop. It. Now!"
Winter slunk away, scowling. "You are so mean," she muttered.
"The people don't have all of their firewood yet," Autumn scolded her. "By sending a Snow, they could freeze."
"Humans are overrated, anyway," Winter said. "I don't see what the big deal is."
"Winter, try and understand," Spring said gently. "It is our responsibility to give humans the right seasons at the right times. We could get in huge trouble if we didn't."
"I never liked this job!" Winter yelled. "I'm giving them a Snow, whether you like it or-"
"Winter, stop goofing around," Autumn hissed. "Mother Nature will kill us if you don't stop doing this."
"Well, to be completely honest, Mother Nature wouldn't KILL us-" Summer started.
Autumn glared at him. Summer bit his lip and stopped talking.
"Anyway," Autumn continued, "if you have a problem with your job, you can always quit, but Mother Nature wouldn't be very happy about that."
Winter sighed. "Fine," she mumbled. "I'll wait."
"Good," Autumn said. "I'm sure you'll only have to wait a month or so more, Winter."
"Joy," Winter muttered sarcastically.
Summer grinned. "Anyway, Winter, if you're having any hard feelings, ya know, you can always come to me! 'Cause I can give only some of the world summer. I don't get to do this town for a while! And, think about it. You get to give a bunch of the world winter, ya know?"
Winter rolled her eyes. "Okay, Mister Happy-Forever," she said. "But I don't need to talk to you. Got that?"
Spring sighed. "Why can't we just all get along? Aren't we supposed to be friends?"
"No," Winter said.
"Yes," Autumn said, glaring at Winter.
"We are friends," Summer protested.
Spring smiled. "I think if we try a bit better, we can get along."
"You," Winter grumped, "are so cheesy."
Autumn mumbled something under his breath and got back to work.
Summer grinned. "We can do this! Group hug, guys!"
Only Spring gave him a half-hearted hug.
Winter stuck out her tongue in disgust, and turned to Autumn. "You know, that town's really looking nice there... And it would look nicer if I sent, maybe, well... A little Frost to help it out?"
"Don't try it," Autumn sighed. "They aren't ready yet."
Winter pouted. "Fine! But that means I get to give some of Alaska a blizzard, right?"
Autumn glanced at her. "Do they have firewood, or some other kind of heating... Thingamajig?"
Winter had no idea. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Uh-huh. The place I'm thinking of, yeah, they have, um, a lot of heating options."
"Go on, then," Autumn said dismissively.
Winter slunk away to give Anchorage a blizzard. "Oh, yes," she whispered. "I'll give 'em one that'll last a while."
Summer sighed, and glanced at Spring. "Why don't the others like me?"
Spring smiled a bit. "Autumn's just grumpy because he hangs around Winter so much. And Winter... Well..."
"I heard that!" Winter and Autumn yelled at the same time.
Spring giggled. "Winter's still warming up to us."