Snowed In

Nobody in Spangenburg had been specially worried when the previous week’s weather report had come in. This was Switzerland, after all, and having the roads blocked for a few days was no big deal. If worse came to worst, they knew federal authorities would have supplies flown in by helicopter. Spangenburgers simply topped their stocks of food and made plans for the week.

And so, after they were snowed in on Friday night, they settled into a special routine. Some things were common: every morning a member of each household would walk out and make sure the new snow, if there had been any, would represent no problem on roofs or paths. Dogs were let out, water pipes checked.

Aside from that, Spangenburgers took those days off very differently.

One family, the Grütters, had recently discovered role-playing games. It was Grandma Hilda, surprisingly, who volunteered to run a campaign for those days. Each day the five of them woke up, had breakfast, and donned their dice, paper, pencils and imagination, and faced fantastic perils.

Bernhardin Schmid, 31, single, cat mum of three, had come home last Friday with the trunk of her car full of books. If anyone walked by her house, they’d have heard some mellow smooth jazz, and they might even catch a glimpse of her on her couch, surrounded by her cats, a fire crackling in her chimney, her attention on one of her books. Still, she wished for a story where a woman like her found a portal to a parallel universe, but her books rarely gave her that.

She might have liked what Thomas Würsten was doing a few houses beyond. Thomas had chosen to stop procrastinating and finally give his novel a push. To his surprise, he was managing to. He wrote page after page on his computer, a classical radio station in the background. Draft after draft, he somehow kept coming back to stories about mysterious cat-loving women who could leap through different universes.

Andrea Schlumpf and Hiltwin Thalmann had planned everything carefully. Food was ready, drinks were ready, and their satellite dish was ready. They finally had found time to binge some of the TV series everyone talked about. They had made a list, and they had searched the internet, carefully trying to avoid spoilers and almost managing to, so they could put them all in watching order. And they had ended up throwing in a couple more new shows that knew nothing about.

Jost Häberli didn’t feel well. Why he was still here, he wasn’t sure. The job. It paid the bills. But what use, paying the bills, if he didn’t enjoy life? His therapist had warned him beforehand, but he had decided what to do while the town was blocked: nothing. He just stayed in bed, listening to the wind and the snow and the occasional bird. A neighbour might yell and a dog might bark back. Why was he here? Why was he alive still?

Alexis Schadegg and Max Rösli barely left their bed as well. But they were having fun. And sex. Lots of it. Whenever they left their bedroom, they did so wrapped in a blanket only, and went for sandwiches and pre-cooked food, so they could go back to the bed as soon as possible. And the shower. They liked the shower.

What would they think about their neighbours, Martina Hagenbuch and Francesco Kobel? In a sense, they had chosen the same path. But Martina and Francesco barely left their sex dungeon. They stopped regularly for food and rest. And they reminisced about the Känzigs, who had come to visit last Christmas, and what a wonderful time all four had had. And how exciting and rewarding. They definitely had to do it again.

Alessandro Soldermann, however, was worried. He felt like starting smoking again, but fortunately, he had no cigarettes in the house, and of course, he couldn’t buy any now. So he turned to alcohol. It was his damned boss’ fault. He had planned to leave a bit early on Friday, using the snowstorm as an excuse, but of course, she had come up with some stupid last-minute job. As a result, Alessandro had been late. Late. How long had it been since he had last been late? When he was a newbie. But now, now, he was trapped in his house, and he couldn’t get rid of what he had in his basement.

Spangenburg’s busybody was Amélie von Bergen. All towns have one, or at least one neighbour who rises to the post. Or that’s how Amélie had always seen her place in life, in any case. She had been oh so happy on Friday evening when she had seen Soldermann arrive so late. The guy had always acted suspiciously: she knew he hid something. Snow had already been falling heavily when he had parked his Volvo, and under her intent gaze, had unloaded the trunk. Her heart had jumped when she saw what it was he has carried into his house. So much so, that she had tripped and fell backwards. She had heard a crack. It was Sunday now, and all Amélie knew was that she couldn’t feel anything from her neck downwards. No pain, no hunger. Just the cold wooden floor, and her tears down her cheeks. Perhaps when the police found her, they might investigate Soldermann?

****

Wow. I only came up with the idea for this story on Friday (believe me, you don’t want to know the other options), and life is just so busy these weeks for me I’ve had to wait until today, Sunday, to write it. Hope everyone likes it!

(Everyone? Is anyone out there?)

So, I’m late, and the new prompt is going to be late, too. Who’s checking anyway?