2019-12-21 - #snowharbor2019

August is holed up in his cabin, but his employees live in town proper, and when Thomasina sees the posters, she reports back, and Cy gathers everyone up in the Park. They bring their own supplies, and leave a few boxes for others: fallen tree branches, oak and maple leaves, stiff and brown from fall, some dried fruits that didn't make it into wreathes.

"A reindeer," Ully suggests. Thomasina waves a mittened hand at him.

"So typical."

Cy rubs his chin. "A nymph?" Jendy is on board. Ully looks thoughtful.

Thoma arches an eyebrow. "How racy will this nymph be?"

Ully and Jen pull up possible examples on their phones. The four argue.

"Oak leaves as pasties seems not-family-friendly," Cy says.

"Oak and maple leaf corset," Ully tries. Jen nods emphatically.

Thoma gives them both a Look. "No double-D bustline," she says, strident. Cy is sympathetic to their cause, but agrees with Thoma. No huge boobs on the nymph. They get to work.

It's no sculpture, but it's not half bad. They use some branches for anters, cover her torso with oak and maple leaves. It winds up being very tasteful, with coal for her eyes, and smeared coal to shape her face. They can only make it from the flanks up, since it would never stand for more than ten minutes. Ully suggests they solve this by having it be mid-step, so they can imply the legs. This mostly works.

She's half turned, glaring at the rest of the creations, ready to flee back into the forest. They take a lot of pictures, and leave extra boxes of supplies for others to use. Ully had enough forethought to print out a little sign for the boxes:

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM B&B AND OUT ON A LIMB!

BRING A PHOTO OF YOUR CREATION FOR A FREE SPRING BULB OR SEED PACKET OF YOUR CHOICE! YES WE'RE OPEN!!!!

(At some point, someone (Ully) came back and scribbled, OFFER VOID FOR B&B AND OOAL EMPLOYEES under that.)

Finch and Ignacio come to the park ready and raring to go, all bundled up in their winter gear. They have a PLAN. Something to represent their life this past year. Something to sum up all the things that say 'Figgy and Inch' to the world. They work diligently, they work tirelessly, they...throw snowballs at each other, roll around in the powder, laugh and make out a little.

At the end of the day, they have managed to make a reasonable facsimile of...a big ass snow chicken. It's Canary, the accidental-not-a-songbird that Iggy got for Finch as a present. They employed a clever use of Koolaid packets to color the snow on the comb and wattle red, and the beak orange (http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/m/2016jilin/img/attachement/png/site1/20161230/eca86bd9ddc719d03b9318.png).

There are a lot of people in Gray Harbor whose initials are "G.S." For example, there's George Smith, Geoffrey Stephens, Gregory Sumpter...

...Graham Stewart.

The point is, no one can prove which one peed his initials in the snow on the sidewalk where Oak Avenue runs into the park.

It's a lovely winterstormy day, and the people of Gray Harbor have come out of their hidey-holes and assorted lairs to sprinkle some holiday cheer to go with all that snow, building various snowpeople and snowcritters for some mysterious contest. It's all quite lovely, and James, well, despite all his misgivings about doing something as dangerous as leaving the house, could not resist. I mean, what's a couple of feet of snow? He's used to East Coast winters, he'll be fine. Off he goes, bundled up in TWO hoodies, his jeans, and an ill-fitting but quite stylish wool coat that is far too big for him and looks like a trenchcoat on his short frame. Before he goes and tries to make one for real for the competition, though, well, it's been a few years since he last made a snowman, so he heads out to an empty lot near the woods where there's plenty of fresh undisturbed snow he can work with, to practice a bit.

Commercial Break: Jack Stallion whiskey: just the thing to warm you up this Christmas season. It's the thoroughbred whiskey with a kick. Look for the centaur logo: All Man. All Horse. All Man-Horse. Jack Stallion.

We come back an hour or so later to see how James is doing with his snowman- oh. Oh, dear. There's James, but there's no snowman, just several clumps of snow in an open field around James, who is holding a small shovel up in a defensive position. He's panting heavily, and he's got the beginnings of a nasty bruise under one eye. He's also covered in snow, as if he'd been pelted with hundreds of snowballs. Snow has gotten past his collar, dripping down his back, down through his jeans, leaving him entirely soaked in the Winter chill. James shivers, eyes darting in every direction as if expecting an attack, and dodges just in time as a dense heavy snowball flies through the spot where his head was a moment ago. As more snowballs start to fly in his direction , James breaks into a run, daring only a single look back, just in time to spot the wickedly grinning form of a rotund snoman just at the treeline. It holds one stick-arm up, branches extended in an approximation of a middle finger. James yelps, and puts on more speed, running away from the snowman at top speed.

"I HATE THIS FUCKING TOWN!!!"

Noelle slogs along the park where her Vespa got stuck in a snow drift, crossing along where it's safe(er) out of the direct line of fire of sliding cars or whatever else GH has to throw at a lowly delivery girl on the ass-end of a snowstorm when everyone orders takeout because they do not want to drive in this. She's glancing down at her phone, when it pings with another order. Unfortunately, this means she's not looking where she's going, and so she walked right into someone's snowman.

It's a lot like walking into a wall except walls don't usually poke you in the eye with a carrot. "Motherfff—" When the snow clears, it's just Noelle face down in a pile of ruined hopes and dreams. Just kidding, it's a mediocre snowman. She glances left, then right, struggles back to her feet and groans, squinting through a blurry eye.

It takes about a minute and a half to restack a slightly shorter snowman, and everything goes back a little crooked. She also relocates the carrot to a more southerly region. And then she flees the scene of the crime.

It was time to close the Salon for the storm. Clients were canceling their appointments, unable to get out and drive or not wanting to trudge through it to get their hair done, only to ruin the do with hoods and winter hats after. They would be closed for the holiday anyway, so what's an extra day or two. Most were rescheduling anyway. It just meant the days between Christmas and New Year's would be extra busy. With the last client called and Lacey finishing cleaning up, Nicole sets the pen down on the appointment book, still not having integrated into a computer system, and looks to her Stylist associate.

"You got plans Lace?"

"Not tonight, no. Apparently shoveling my ass up to my front door to get home."

Grinning, Nicole lays out the challenge. "We should stop by the park and enter that snowman building contest. Could win money or something... who knows. What do you say?"

Lacey is certainly not one to pass up a challenge, especially one that might make her some bank, so of course the duo heads over to Addington park to try their hand out at snow building. They get distracted at times, entering into snowball fights against one another and sometimes the other people braving the cold and weather for some winter fun.

In the end, covered in snow, rosy-cheeked, freezing, and smiling ear and ear, they finish and are proud of their creations. Yes, multiple. Together they have created two Snow Ladies.

One has a sign written in fanciful lettering with Sharpie on a piece of thick cardboard that reads "Before". This snow build features a feminine shape of curves instead of the typical three round balls of snow, with an edge created as if to represent her wearing a dress. The provided decorations have been used to create buttons and facial features (the mouth is a very large piece of coal, making her look as if she is in shock), leaves stuck on the dress as a pattern, and a carrot nose, shortened because of course she had a nose job. Numerous thin branches have been stuck into the head, standing straight up to give her the appearance of crazy hair.

Standing beside her is a similar-looking Snow Lady with a sign that reads, "After" in that same fancy writing. Her shape and decor is as identical as cold hands could make it, the differences being that this Snow Lady's mouth has been made into a smile, and her hair features well-tamed branches of evergreen that lay in feathered layers, making her look sleek and well put together.

The two hairstylists stand together, each with a hot cocoa in hand given to them by a ever-so-kind person helping out of their own free will (and spiked with peppermint schnapps), smiling at their work. "Here, hold this," Nicole says, hading the paper cup to Lacey and slipping wet gloves off of fingers made red from the cold. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, snapping some photos of lacey, a selfie of herself to show off her red nose and cheeks and snow-covered hat and hair to send to Joey with a note 'I need warmed up. Ideas?', and of course of the Snow Ladies. She goes to the FreindZone app and posts these last few with the words, "She visited Curl Up & Dye for her holidays do. Did you? #SNOWHARBOR2019".

They have another cocoa or two, then with kisses to cheeks and 'Merry Christmases' shared, the two women head off to their homes to enjoy the season and a few days off.

“No, don’t do it like that!”

Ashira gives her father a very annoyed look as she comes over to where he’s attempting to draw scales in what appears to be a mermaid’s tail. “Scales aren’t supposed to be pointy. Mermaids aren’t dragons.” She says this as though it should be obvious to all.

“How about you do it, then?” Ciprian counters, handing her the stick that he’s been using. “Art is subjective.” He has to work to hide a smile as he says it, though, especially when his daughter puts her hands on her hips as she eyes him extremely skeptically.

“No, it isn’t,” she replies. “Mermaids are mermaids. Their scales aren’t pointy.” She bends down to smooth out the scales he’s done so far so that she can do it over. She begins to drag the stick through the snow, and to be fair, her scales are much less pointy.

She steps back once she’s through to survey their creation, before she nods once, apparently satisfied. Does it look like an actual mermaid? Well, Ashira is eight, and her father was making pointy mermaid scales, so make of that what you will.

“Take a picture!” she exclaims with a smile, her annoyance with her father forgotten in the excitement of finishing, and Ciprian obligingly pulls out his phone to snap one, before he uploads it to the FriendZone app with the caption, “Got lost on the way to Atlantis. #SNOWHARBOR2019.”

Once that is done, he puts the phone away and puts an arm around his daughter. “Come on,” he says, “let’s go make some hot chocolate.”

The evening sky had turned navy blue hours ago and had it not been for the Boardwalk lights, would have kept the twilight din of the tourist attraction dark, by the time he was finished. Canting his phone to examine his drawing, his breath visible, hands red from the cold. A soft sigh snorted steam from his flaring nostrils like an impatient bull while he examined the drawing. It's long lines. The feminine curves. He put the phone down and examined his handiwork.

There were four of them. Of different heights. The hardest part wasn't getting the snow, that was easy. The hardest part was going to Firefly Forest and searching for the eight perfect twigs and returning back with them. Getting a spray bottle and filling it with watered down black food coloring, that was easy too, or even red food dye.

It took hours, rolling those balls of snow. Positioning them in the exact manner he needed, so it was obvious the snow creatures were looking into the front window of the Sweet Retreat, but could also be seen by passer's by.

And now it was late evening. There was nothing left to add. A frozen, cold giant took one last look at his smartphone drawn blueprints and nodded stoically.

One picture, a post.
And then he went back inside. Alone.

<br /><center><br /><font size="1">"Oh, SNOW!" or "Soylent Snow."</font></center>

Lilith and Byron still haven’t figured out what kind of snowman to make, but they know they want to make one. There’s a contest, sure, but it’s also a matter of principle. There’s snow and when they tried to play in it and go ice skating, that went terrifying too quick to get any good old-fashioned snow appreciation in with each other from the outdoors. Except that part where they dug her car out of it. That might count. Wasn’t fun, though.

The cat with the angry face that they maybe aren’t keeping is named Smog or Smaug, depending on which person of the pair you’re talking to, but it sounds the same, so it’s fine. It’s sitting on a leather sofa arm waiting to be fed while staring at the pair (angrily). The woman is trying to be inspired by Pinterest on her phone while morning cuddled into the man with coffee cup in her other hand, “… what about snowball Pacman with little ghosts and ball dots lined up that he’s eating? Too nerdy?”

"Pac-man and those energy balls or whatever it is he's eating? That's not even trying." Byron says as he's reading the morning paper. He is in no way looking for inspiration for this snowman that they plan on building and instead his focus is on enjoying his coffee and the snuggling warm company that he keeps. With his nose buried within the Gazette after taking a sip of Joe, he says all without looking up, "We could make a semi-traditional snowman. Put our little spin on it." If anything, he's looking to see if there's any more controversy surrounding Joshua Foster and his casino while keeping up with the conversation, "A snowman in a suit might be interesting."

His initial comment on Pac-man wasn't made to put her down, it was just an idle passing thought on just how much effort it would take for them to create something of that design. One corner of raised newspaper droops forward when he releases that section of it to make a grab for his mug again. Turning towards her, he at least graces her with an amused smile, adding in, "Why don't we take a look at what everyone else is doing and maybe something will come to mind."

If the woman is bothered, it's by the cat, suddenly. The fluffy pale-smoked cat with the angry face and eyes has leapt straight on her lap to use as a springboard for the coffee table perch it takes next to stare at the man. It sits and looks angry. It meows at the man because it likes that one better than the woman.

Byron and Lilith have the same thought at the same time while looking at each other.

When they’re dressed and headed toward the park, Lilith needs a detour to the shop. She gets an amazing amount of old buttons and junk jewelry between the worthwhile things, usually from buying cheap bulk at estate sales to restore. But it’s not just baubles she wants, the brunette collects some broken stained glass lamp pieces too. They need options for decoration if they can get the cat form (and anger) right, after all.

And when they’re their leaned down gathering and rolling snow at the chosen park spot, Lilith can’t help but take a moment to shove some snow down into the collar of Byron’s coat to try and make him yelp. With a hop back in case of retaliation, she claims, “This cat is a strange kind of muse, you know. He doesn’t need to know we’re basically building an effigy of him and his feline rage. He’ll get a bigger ego than you in front of a mirror.” Oh, but she loves that mirror image of his too. Also she stays back because she doesn’t like snow in her coat.

After getting dressed into warm winter clothes, with their muse in hand (it has a leash on), Byron heads downstairs to meet with Lilith so that they can find the perfect spot to build the damn thing. Once they're at the park, he'll set the cat, Smog/Smaug, with the lamb-like fur down to play in the snow. It was an outdoor alley cat initially, so it can't complain too much. It's not really all that common to see a cat on a leash, but here we are.

The thing looks as annoyed as ever, staring at the two with those angry eyes; eyes which make it look very much like a stuffed animal. For now, they are in the gathering up snow phase, so Byron's crouched down to do just the that, collecting a pile of snow to later pat down and shape. "We don't get snowfall like this every year. Enjoy it while you can." He tells the cat, who looks less than amused.

Just then, his body jerks up to standing at the icy sensation that touches like death down his back. "Lilith!" He practically snaps, looking just as amused as that cat. There's this almost unforgiving shake of his head, but he doesn't move forward with retaliation and simply continues to get back to work once the shock of the cold wears off. "Do you really think he'll even realize that whatever it is we're constructing looks even remotely like him? He asks, eyes lifted from his lowered position as he's working to form the body of the sculpture. "I don't even think we'll be able to put two and two together." That's how well he expects this whole project to go.

Initially, Lilith is entirely paranoid about retaliation and distracted, weighing whether or not making Byron make the same face as the rage cat was worth it (it was). But eventually that wears off and they get into it. Byron’s a innovative, helpful and constructive hand at things, and she’s good at manually building too, not just glimmer fix tricks. They notate the logistics of making a traditional three ball snowman to pack the sides and ears and shapes in with more snow after the fact for form. Then they knock it out and pick from her junk to make decorative and angry details.

Also, you see, Byron volunteered giving their snowman professional style, as if it were wearing a suit. That's why he has a bowtie tucked away in his pocket. It was something he was willing to dress a snowman up in. Their finished product isn’t a man made out of snow, though. It’s an angry snow cat with a dapper tie.

While competitively posting to the local Friendzone with #SNOWHARBOR2019 as tag, Lilith also gets her dose of snow down the coat from Byron once they’re done. She probably had that coming and somehow, the actual cat nearby on a leash looks amused about this. Or maybe he’s just smug they made him a shrine. With his face, it’s hard to tell.

Alexander Clayton does his snowman in the dark of night, by the light of lanterns. He might come back, maybe with Isabella, to do a more conventional version at some point in time, but right now? This is his baby. He has an entire satchel full of materials, including police tape, and stakes out an area to work on that's off to one side, almost under the shelter of the forest. He's not really trying to traumatize children. Mostly.

Photos are laid out, meticulously, sketches have been made, and when he gets to work, it's with the careful, driven passion of someone who is pouring his heart and soul into the project.

And by the morning, it's done. Bright yellow police tape (the 'crime scene' variety) has been laid out over what is, in fact, a crime scene rendered in snow. There's the victim, sprawled out face down in the snowbank, 'dressed' in a bloody shirt and pants that have been cut in half so that they can be wrapped around the snow, a knife handle sticking out of the back. A kneeling medical examiner is by one side (identified by a spray-painted on black jacket saying ME - and if it soooort of resembles Yule, that's surely a coincidence. A coincidence that took an hour to get right.) hunched over so that he could be sculpted out of the snow without having to make limbs that stand alone. Likewise, two cops kneel by a spatter of 'blood', huddled together and talking. One might have a certain striking resemblance to Captain de la Vega, if only in the furrowed brow and intense stare.

Otherwise, the scene has just the usual detritus of a crime-scene. A stretcher and several tool kits have been carefully rendered in the snow, spray-painted the appropriate colors to stand out, there's markers for a set of footprints leading away from the body, there's a few scattered things here and there, as if it was a mugging gone wrong and the robber was tossing things out of a bag or wallet. It's clear the work of several hours, at least, in the construction, and probably more than that in the planning. And if your tastes run to the morbid, it's actually pretty good.

It does not get posted to Friendzone.

Sparrow contributes one of the more colorful entries to the #snowharbor2019 contest. It comes in the standard shape of three big snowballs stacked one on top of the other and stands fairly tall, especially if one counts its hair. In the posted picture, it has a magnificent mohawk made out of two rows of rainbow-colored candy canes, but those cherry-flavored treats disappear over the course of the day as some brave souls snag the candy for themselves. The black licorice and gumdrops used for its face are likewise perfect in the picture, but the latter, at least, don't hold up well to the direct exposure to snow and start to droop and melt after a while, rendering its sneer a little sloppy. It wears a black scarf with rainbow fringe at the end and a beat up old Guitar Hero controller slung about its round 'shoulders.' Its sticks-for-arms don't quite imitate playing, but they help to keep the instrument steady with one cradling the guitar's neck. A few drippy tattoos drawn on with food coloring occupy the remaining visible snow, most notably a cherubic figure across its back with impressively rendered wings and a wild splash of purple hair. The lines are magnificently crisp in the posted images, but it's almost unrecognizable a few hours later. Even as all its colors start to run, this snowfolk still cuts a colorful, recognizably punk image... just maybe a bit more impressionistic as the day draws on.

Yet another entry comes in, created by Yule and posted up to the #snowharbor2019 contest. This snow man follows the traditional three snowball technique perfected over the centuries, but it isn't set upright. Instead, the poor snowman has been laid out on a bed of snow. Two black X's form it's eyes to show the poor fellow is no longer upon this mortal coil. Down the middle of it's 'chest', a large incision has been made to reveal the insides of the snowball. A frozen tomato has been placed where the heart goes, with two bunches of frozen green grapes serve as the lungs. Further below, two potatoes go where the kidneys should be, a cucumber for the liver, and a nice, big squash serves as the stomach. The top of the head of the snowman has been carefully removed, exposing the cauliflower brain in this display of the anatomy of a snowman. A sign rests against it, reading, 'After a long life that ended from natural causes, this brave soul donated their body to furthering snow science.'

Grant Baxter may have NO IDEA there's even a contest going but he does yell at James, "RUN MAN! DON'T EVER LET EM GET YOU, BROTHER! WOOOO! DAMN THE MAN! SAVE THE EMPIRE!" Yes James running like hell gets a grin from the Pac NW Banksy. Oh yeah, snow. RIGHT-O! He was doing something with that.

He disappears for a while and comes back with a standard folding card table, vinyl top and aluminium legs. This gets propped up first. Then he disappears pausing at Byron's and grins, "That is fucked up duder. You gotta tell me who you're buyin from." Off he goes agana nd 20 min later he's back with 2 folding chairs, a coffee, a coffee mug from a diner, and some poster board.

And now the caroling starts which sounds suspiciously like the Electric Mayhem's 'Little St. Nick'. One chair on one side of the card table at an angle and the other on the front corner. Then he starts to gather up snow. Unceremoniously he heaps a 3'pile on and over the seat of the chair and he disappears again leaving the coffee mug to hold down the poster board.

Off the young Mr. Baxter goeth!

Returneth doth he in a Jaunty Way(tm) with a costume top hat, a carrot, a scarf and some branches. The carrot is flicked into the snow like a dagger. the top hat 'affixed' to the top of the unshaped clod of snow on the seat of the chair, and the scarf is jammed into the mess near the bottom. He sets to the poster board taping it to the front of the table to not flap around and sets to with his graffiti styling and the marker leaving a sign on the front that reads:

GLOBAL WARMING IS REAL
CHANGE MY MIND

Satisfied with his melted mischief he turns, salutes his creation, and jogs down the lawn of Addington park doing a cartwheel to palm two small lumps, doesn't break stride, but clumps them together to also lob it back at wherever was aiming for James with a cackle.

Another one appears in the wee hours, but in this case it's not to disguise the creator. That just happens to be when Rhys left work.

There's already a chicken, which is mildly disappointing, since the 15-year-old portion of his brain had been advocating for a giant rooster. (The 13-year-old portion that wanted to skip the wordplay had already been sent to its room to think about its choices.) It takes a few minutes standing beneath one of the lights and contemplating the area before he picks a spot and gets down to work.

The result is almost the traditional three-snowball model body, except that he's built it where drifts have nearly covered one end of a bench, and after helping 'nearly' become 'entirely', he's arranged the lowest ball so that the back of the bench forms something like a wooden leg. This is because he's built a pirate, with as big a hat as he can get not to fall apart atop the 'head' ball, and one twig arm chosen because the end kind of looks like a hook. The other's got smaller branches to represent fingers, just to make it clear. There's a carrot nose, one smallish coal eye, and the largest piece of coal he could find to be an eyepatch, with coaldust smudged in a line to represent the string keeping it on. Tiny bits of coal pick out a wide if somewhat snaggle-toothed grin. The fattest carrot he could find sits on one 'shoulder', with a small snowball over the tip at the top and two carrot tips poking out the front for a beak.

Beside it is what looks like probably a treasure chest, carrot-slice coins pouring out, except that on a closer look, it kind of looks more like an old-style computer monitor than a wooden box.

A picture's uploaded with the #snowharbor2019 tag, and a brief note:

Shiver me everything!

This one is a giant frog. More specifically an Argentine wide-mouthed frog, often known as a "Pac Man frog". Probably. Identifying snow frogs is an inexact science. Huge and wide and squat, it has pointy little eye ridges, two round shiny rocks for eyes, and its mottled brown-and-red markings have been blobbed in with food coloring.

A pair of broomsticks creates legs wearing pants and boots, sticking out of its mouth, while an ornamental shovel lies nearby. The Pac Man frog is an ambush predator, after all.

Aidan shows up in the morning and a shitload of layers, bearing a rickety but fair-sized shovel, a big serving spoon, and a pointed stick.

A few hours later he leaves, in much the same condition. Except snowier.

In between, there's a mound of snow almost as tall as he is and a good deal larger around, pushed and shoved and even hugged into a firm block, then shaved into a cylinder, and from there, into a recognizable pineapple, the details drawn in with the stick and the leaves carefully built on top. Then he carves in deeper with the spoon and stick, until the pineapple has a large, open mouth with blunt humanish teeth, a uvula in the back, and a long tongue lolling out of the pineapple's mouth and out onto the ground, formed from the removed snow. It's nothing like professional, but recognizable for what it is: cartoony and surreal and possibly liable to devour the unwary.

As of the time it appears among the #snowharbor2019 images, it doesn't appear to have eaten anyone yet.

Arguably, the skills involved in sculpting a shaped cake could be repurposed toward sculpting in snow.

The snow, however, insists on being cold and wet and on the ground, and Vyv is not about to spend his time kneeling down in that and pushing it around, thank you. His trousers, coat, and shoes all deserve better than that, even if they have also been chosen with snow-resistance in mind. Resistance is one thing; outright revolution is another.

Instead, he strolls among the snow-things, doing what he does best (okay, one of the things he does best): judge. Not for the prize, of course. Just for the truth.

The truth, alas, is that everything's by amateurs and a fair proportion by kids, and most strike him as neither inspired nor inspiring. A few of the more clearly detailed and thought-out offerings do get a longer examination and small nod, and the 'global warming' one even manages to elicit the sort of exhalation that was once college roommates with a laugh, but it's not long at all before he's fairly sure he's seen everything he cares to, and quite a bit he doesn't.

Heading toward the park exit, one near the path catches his eye. It's not because it's good. It's not. It's short and crooked. And a carrot's been applied a good deal south of anything that could fairly be called nose territory.

It seems to be drooping.

Granted, in this weather, who could blame it? Still...

Vyv shoots a quick sidelong glance each way, casually lowers a hand, then saunters back out of the park, leaving a decidedly more festive angle behind.

Happier holidays all around.

Has left Finch and returned, token uneven gait in tact and all, and in hand is a double sleeved cup of coffee and one for her and the other for him. He looks at their chicken taking shape and announced proudly, "I wrangled up the kool-aid, and got an extra coffee cup to make sure the eyes come out the same size so it doesn't look like Hei-Hei." He pauses, "Or we go over the top if it all goes wrong and build Hei-Hei. We have options."

Still it's good to be out and worrying about home problems and snow issues...Snissues?! He's keeping it. He's keeping an eye on Finch's brain to keep it from acting up in the crows best he can. Cheerfully he notes. "Well the better news is if it starts leaning to one side we can just say she's taking after me." He pats the snow bird on the head. "Cluckity cluck, friend. Cluckity cluck." He looks to Finch and says "That's chicken for 'let your fingers warm up'. Then we can start in on the feathers." Looking around he has to hand it to Gray Harbor, "I think turning disasters into festivals is this city's super power."

So how does your typical trolly game store owner make a snowman for a contest entry? Well, for one, she's small and prone to cold, so gotta be bundled up and not out to long. Three layers and her hooded Sombra letterman, check on that. Rolling up big snowballs to heft onto others was probably gonna be out. She'd need friends for that, and people had their own lives. Plus, she had the idea that would work.

So, sometime in the morning, she wanders into the park with a bag over her shoulder, dragging a couple of big, gangly branches she found someplace, and some wooden signmaking materials. Tossing these down next to a good flat surface of snow, she gets to work gathering a good portion of snow she can manage. She does her best to keep the flat surface while building up a section like a long plateau-like mound. She molds and pounds this down to get it condensed enough to sculpt and starts cutting in as much detail as she can manage. It was a little bigger than life, but she needed the room.

She works some black rocks in about halfway, building up around them, then cuts two holes in the front, forming a big flat nose. She opens her bag and wraps and tucks in some random leather straps around this long shape, crossing them in some places, stapling them together so they make an almost ladder like structure. She tucks some white plastic pieces near the back of the sculpture, then grabs out a scrap of white hair from an old wig she'd cut into a line. Building this into the very back end, she carefully smooths everything else out, making it seem like this form was just sitting in a flat plane.

Next she takes her gangly branches and drives them cut-end down into the snow, again taking care to smooth things out as much was manageable to hold them up and look unworked. She drives a wooden stake into the snow and staples a plastic sign to it, breaking out a fatty black sharper and writing.

She steps back to admire her work, red faced from the cold, grinning like a diminuitive little devil. She clumsily digs her phone out, having to remove a glove so she can take a picture and submit it for judgement.

Abitha turns and leaves her sculpture, a half-submerged, bridled, white horse head in the middle of a smooth pond with branches sprouting up all around it. Nearby her sign reads:

BEWARE: SWAMP OF SADNESS

Sutton tromps through the park late sometime between Christmas and New Years, after coming home from Seattle, heading home from the FD after grabbing some stuff from her locker. She walks past hostage snowmen, leaning snowmen, snoctopus, but stops when she gets to the cat that reminds her strongly of Hope at home.

She laughs, leans forward, and tucks a plastic and sparkle-paste-gem tiara onto its head. It might not stay, or it could be stolen, but for some time today and perhaps tonight, a cranky kitty has a crown.

Bounding through the snow in a too small Santa t-shirt and a red and white beanie is none other than the giant from Firefly, Andre. He should probably be cold considering the outfit, but boy is he having fun making a snowman. The bottom is too small, the middle too round, and the head hangs precariously to the left, but it is his. "With a stovetop pipe and a button nose~" he bellows while he goes, removing his beanie to put on the snowman instead, 'booping' the button into place.

It's beautiful, really, the finished product. So is the picture that gets snapped with #SNOWHARBOR2019 - Andre kneeling beside his creation with a big ol' grin, fistbumping the snowman's twig hand, as the head comes sliding off.

"Patrick, are you serious right now? Put your wallet away! We're supposed to build one ourselves, not pay kids to do it for us," Anne's laughing as she comes down from the snowball fight, a cup of hot cocoa warming her hands. The Addington beside her gets a roll of her eyes, but it's Christmas-time in Gray Harbor and everything's going to be fine. "Oh, look at that one over there - it must've gotten damaged in the fight. I'll go fix it. You go find us a spot for ours." She stands up on her tippy-tippy-toes to smooch a kiss to her companion's jawline and then she's off to the sad looking snowman by the edge of the trees.

It shouldn't surprise her when the snowman turns its head and looks at her with soulless coal eyes, the pipe dangling out of the side of it's 'mouth', which is really just the path of someone's finger through the snow head. Yet the cup of hot cocoa drops out of her hand and splatters against her feet, melting the snow there.

"Heya babe. Is your name Jingle Bells? 'Cuz you look like you'll go all the way."

Anne stumbles back, staring. "I'm sorry - what??"

"How about we make tonight a not-so-silent night? Let's pretend to be presents and get laid under the tree. That's not a candy-cane in my pocket, baby-doll, I'm just happy to see you." And indeed, there was suddenly a candy-cane in a very inappropriate place. "Come and deck my balls, baby girl, 'cuz all I want for Christmas is yo.."

Anne bursts out laughing. It's probably bad form, but she can't help herself. "Oh my gosh, no. No, seriously, you're cute and all but.." More giggles. "I like older men. Sorry, Frosty. You're just not my type!"

"Where'd you even go?" Elise is on her knees in the snow, packing more of the fluffy stuff onto the big ball that she's making. She's got it all planned out - there's going to be an Elise snowman and a Graham snowman, but the real Graham ran off to leave her with all the hard work. Typical. But he was back now, and she squints up at him ... and then over his shoulder. She can't be sure that the glint of yellow snow in the distance is Graham Stewart's initials, but she's like almost a hundred percent positive and --

"GRAHAM STEWART DID YOU PISS IN THE FUCKING SNOW?!" And then she tackles him to the ground. That is the story about how the real Graham Stewart became Snowman Graham Stewart. The end.

Bennie isn't quite in the mood to build a snowman, it seems the sort of things you do with family or loved ones. A group activity instead of a solo one. Still wanting to contribute in some way to the beautiful and comical creations in some way, she went out late in the evening and laid down in the snow. For a long time she just stared at the sky as it turned from rosy gold to black the cold seeping into her bones until she wasn't sure if her limbs would even work anymore. Then slowly she starts waving her arms and kicking her legs like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man until there is a respectable snow angel formed in the snow. The process repeats, over and over until the next morning the area surrounding the contest is filled with a fleet of winged impressions.

The Lawsons arrive at Addington Park on a mission: to build a sculpture that will stand the testament of time...or at least until the snow starts turning all yucky and black from being driven on. The entire family, even Beth's sister and her family from Florida, come to build the snow sculpture together.

Beth is still recovering from a concussion so she uses the excuse to sit in the snow and direct the others as they pile up snow into a well-packed mound that winds up being at least five foot high. Then the older morticians, who surprisingly are aces at sculpture, begin carefully carving out a Sphinx from snow.

It is impressive until one of the younger children puts his hand on the Sphinx's face and smashes it in. The entire family gathers around it anyways and a photo is taken to be posted on Friendzone. #snowharbor2019.

Lex watches James run away screaming, frowning to herself. "What'd I do?"

After a few hours of work, made even longer by a very egregious and distinct lack of artistic ability, what Isabella Reede had managed to contribute in the community's sudden and unexpected snowman building contest was...

...what is that.

Looking at it under the dying light of day, even she had no idea what she was making anymore. After all, what was so hard about making three snowballs stacked together? Only it looked more like a pyramid with a misshapen head, the carrot she got for a nose drooping sadly from where she lodged it in (was that supposed to be a face?) and the pebbles that she used to actually make the face were sliding off, leaving the grin just as bent as the head. With all of her failed attempts to handmake presents this year, this was finally a sign from the higher powers that she really ought to just stick to what she was good at and never try her hand at doing anything resembling art ever again.

With a sigh, she wrapped an old scarf around its neck, stuffed a ski-cap on its head, and after a brief deliberation, stuck a branch into it, turning it in an angle to make the small prongs the closest approximation she could make of a thumbs-up sign, and kicked its foundations slightly until it was leaning on the other side of the nearest thoroughfare so it looked like it was trying to hitch a ride. A cardboard sign that read 'CANCUN' held up by another branch completed the snowy monstrosity.

"This is almost the saddest thing I've ever done," she muttered, though she took a picture of it anyway and sent it to Alexander as a text:

(TXT to Alexander) Isabella : ::image.gif:: I tried. ::grumpy emoji::

"Why are we doing this again?" Matias grumbles as he stands outside the hospital next to his brother. He rubs his hands over his arms a little exaggeratedly, shooting Lalo a look of mild annoyance.

"Because it's fun, pendejo. You're always saying you don't get to have enough fun." Lalo grins, which makes Matias roll his eyes.

"I don't call being stuck out in the fucking snow fun," he says, but he bends down to start to scoop some snow as Lalo does the same, packing it together with his brother as they begin to mold something that slowly turns into a recognizable shape of some sort.

It takes them a while, but eventually they step back to survey their handiwork. It's a typical snowman on top, but it's placed on a surfboard-like shape, and its stick hands are out at angles to make it look as though it's balancing on top. It has a pair of cheap sunglasses stuck on its head, as well as a lei around its neck, and on the ground in front of it there have been rocks placed that spell out, Los Angeles representa!

Dropping his luggage by the door on his way in, the first thing to catch hazel eyes was the pile of white fluff on the balcony. Taking nothing off, passing over pale hardwood flooring, his black leather glove creaked when jerking the door open, once the downing bar was removed from the French door track and he looked outside.

A city blanketed with falling snow.

To be honest, he hadn't been certain if this year would be white or not. A little smile creeped its way on his lips as he grasped the balcony railed and left shoe prints in the snow that had piled up in the balcony while he'd been away and looked down, then out. Coast clear, he looked up and stuck out his tongue waiting for a fleck to land when he only felt the ones landing on his face and squinted eyelids.

Pulling back from the edge and scooping up two handfuls from the pile left claw marks in the snow. He compacted the frozen, fluffy water to a hard mass and then gave it a throw, watching until the snowball vanished from flurry and distance. The snowfall looked so different, dangerous, from the ground but the only danger he faced now was the beginning of a numbness to his digits.

One last thing.

Four claw marks in the embankment of snow, as he arranged the three balls of snow, the largest no bigger than his fist on one of the balcony chairs until he had them perched properly. Sitting on its throne.
Our tiny Snow Emperor.

He beamed at his majesty and then shook his hands, realizing how much more numb they felt, his smile vanishing.

"Fuck this," he mumbled, and head back inside to unpack.

It’s cold. But, that doesn’t stop Poe from stomping up Elm street in his heavy jacket and winter boots. It doesn’t take him long to get to the house that he wants and he hardly cares about the hour. He lifts his hand and bangs on the door. Then he bangs again.

Poe frowns and looks up where he knows Joey must be sleeping inside.

Joey?

Is that music? Music is starting to play and when Poe opens his mouth again it comes out as song.

Do you want to build a snowman? ☃️
Come on, let's go and play!
I hardly see you anymore
Come out the door
I promise they won’t put you away (again)

We used to be best buddies
And now we're back
We hardly even had to try!

Do you want to build a snowman? ☃️
It doesn't have to be a snowman ☃️

It’s 3am, Poe!
Okay, bye

Poe stomps down from the step and back to the sidewalk. He kicks at the bank and looks up and down the street. He takes one step toward home before he turns and rushes back up the stairs, pounding on the door with both hands as the music swells again

Do you want to build a snowman? ☃️
Or shoplift some shit at the mall?
I think some company is overdue
I've started drinking hard
Now I feel ten feet tall!

It gets a little lonely
In this empty ring
Just punching the hours away
(left-right left-right left-right left-right)

Poe leans forward heavily on the door, rapping at it with his knuckles. C’mon Joey. The park. Snowman. The moon is bright the air is brisk, a flask in his pocket … damn, the music is back!

Joey, please I know you're in there
Remember when we were younger
I said I’d watch your back and I’m trying to
I'm right out here for you
Just let me in

We always have each other
Bro, it’s you and me
What are we gonna do?

Do you want to build a snowman? ☃️

The world seems to fade away as the door to Joey’s house finally opens and Poe finds himself coming awake in his own bed. What the fuck? How much had he drank last night? This town is weird sometimes. Oh well, he was just going to Let It Go.

The snow, all majestic and pristine, was held in esteem for the twenty or so seconds it took for Clarissa to actually have to walk in it in heels. Then it was back to the house to change into some fashionably expensive boots and now she walks the paths of the park, eyeing all the weird snowmen and standard snowmen and god knows what else these snow sculptures are attempting. A couple of groups of kids are yelling at each other as they try to assemble their latest creations and she smiles very briefly. One of them mentions the contest and she considers before stepping off the carefully shoveled path into the snow. Maybe something a little more dignified than the misshapen masses that seem to dot the field here. Yes, something shapely and with a cashmere scarf! She leans down to collect a bunch of snow together and for four glorious minutes actually attempts to roll a ball that will be the base of her snowfashionista!

But have you ever tried to actually build a snowman? It's god damn difficult and time consuming and after huffing and puffing and coming up with little more than an oversized snowball, Clarissa is hot and tired and her hands are freezing! So she fumbles in her bag to pull out a spare set of sunglasses, shoving them on the snowball and stomping her way back onto the path. Ugh, manual labor!

Joey awakens bolt upright out of a dead sleep and yells "GOD BLESSED, POE, use the phone like everyone else!" He lays there staring at the ceiling reaches a hand over and checks his phone. There's a sigh as the blanket is pinned down to one side of him. Eyes squint against the phone. "Oh you did. Fucker." Hoe his buddy can drunk text in his damn sleep he'll never fucking know but he kind of envies it if he's being truly honest. He kicks back a message to him. Looking over to the blanket thief his hand reaches out to give that 3 legged mutt a pat on her hind quarter. "C'mon, girly girl. We gotta go meet uncle Poe." Ripley looks up and sets her chin on his shin. She has no idea what this means as she's a dog.

*

And lo, a few hours later there he is with that puppy not a lot bigger than a giant holiday turkey, on the lead next to him trying to run off and hide from all the people. He's got 2 coffees in hand and greets Poe only with, "When I texted you 'bring shit from your Ma's place' you now I didn't mean bring a box of 140 cats right? " Handing the coffee over he surveys the field behind his sunglasses staring it down, and grunts, "Right. Lets do this shit."

And Ripley complies. The boxer sighs, tired, and pulls a baggie out of his pocket, "Not..." what he meant. "You follow direction like Duarte know that." She looks up at him, almost afraid, but his hand comes down backside of his hand first to rub against the side of her head. Dropping the bag in the trash he pauses spotting Andre, that head starting to roll off. Oh no you don't and slowly it pauses and starts to correct itself when Andre's not looking.