Kyle Winkler
It took ages for the avalanche to end. The brothers could see it out of their windows.
Every morning, the avalanche. Every afternoon, the avalanche. Every night.
They couldn’t remember when the avalanche started, only that it was going on for a long time. Children danced under it, adults made love under it, and animals slept under it.
The avalanche survived the summers. Hanging there, mute and incremental. It was the quietest, loveliest disaster the town had known.
In the fall, terrible sickness infected the people. The brothers took charge.
“To not die,” the first brother said, “We must move.”
“To not die,” the second brother said, “We must stay.”
“What about the avalanche?” the town asked. “If we leave, what will happen to it?”
“The avalanche will follow,” the first brother said.
“The avalanche will stay,” the second brother said.
The town moved. The whole of it. Hundreds of miles away. They didn’t want to leave the avalanche behind, of course, but what could they do? Take it with them?
They packed their cars with food and cakes and ice and drove away. The avalanche wouldn't go anywhere, its fall too slow.
The avalanche understood, in its own way. At least that was how the town rationalized it.
The first brother called the second brother.
“I told you the avalanche would follow. I am looking at it right now, outside my window.”
“You're insane,” the second brother said. “Because it's outside my window. It didn't go anywhere.”
“Your avalanche is a fraud,” the first said and hung up.
Just then, the postman brought the second brother a letter. It read:
Dear Second Brother:
Please help.
Always,The Avalanche
There was no postmark.
The second brother received seventy-three of these letters over the years. They always said the same thing. He knew they were ploys written by his brother to piss him off, so he ignored them, ignored everyone. The letters piled up in a shoebox in his closet.
The second brother grew old and lonely. His hands shrunk so his veins showed, and his beard grew long and dirty. To stay sane, he began talking to the avalanche. Sometimes he'd put a lawn chair in the middle of the main road and have tea. He'd pour a cup for the avalanche. Other times, the avalanche wasn't thirsty.
How the avalanche got him through! It was so grand, so wide. The avalanche was a serene presence in the second brother's life. It answered all of his problems. It was his comfort.
That stupid town, he'd say. They think they have the avalanche. They think they are living under it. My brother has cheated them.
After a heavy rainstorm, the brother was having tea with the avalanche when he noticed something flapping high on top. Was it a flag? The second brother couldn’t tell. He'd never seen anything on the avalanche. So he trekked toward it and up under it.
And when he got close enough, he felt it wasn't cold.
It wasn't even snow. The flapping was a piece of loose paper. He tore it off and looked inside the avalanche.
And it was hollow. Like a fancy pastry. It was made of papier mâché. The whole of it. A fake. A charade.
The second brother, upset, fell backwards down the mountain and made his way home. He was distraught.
The next day, the postman delivered a letter. He was out of breath. “You won't believe it,” the postman said. “Everyone in the other village has died in a horrible avalanche.”
The brother opened the letter. It said:
Dear Brother:
Thank you.
Always,
The Avalanche