Author's note –I'm still playing around with tenses, which was how I ended up writing this. To those who know my [notoriously dark/depressing] usual type of fic, please note how un-disturbing this is. It's not about descent into madness, nor about deep moral struggles. Why, this is complete fluff!

Disclaimer – I do not own The Mysterious Benedict Society, or any of the characters therein.

Constance Contraire smiles. She is happy today. There is snow outside, and there is pie inside, and in between outside and inside there are good, strong walls that keep the cold out. Today is not her birthday, and today is not Christmas. It is not Valentine's Day and it is not Easter. It is just a plain old day in the middle of January. It's an everyday day.

Constance knows that she should be outside playing in the snow, but she just can't bring herself to. It's not a matter of laziness, she tells herself, but a matter of aesthetics. How could she bring herself to ruin the pristine beauty of the falling snow by walking in it? So instead she sits at her window and stares out.

Her hand rests on her favorite pen, and a clean sheet of paper sits in front of her on her desk. As she contemplates the fat, fluffy snowflakes falling silently to the ground, Constance's hand starts moving seemingly of its own accord.

Black are the trees,

And white is the snow.



Almost in surprise, Constance looks at the poem she's just written. It's quite good, she thinks, though she feels that she could have come up with a better opening.

She sighs. Constance has been trying to write a letter to Kate for quite some time now, but she can't quite think of what to say. This is a most unusual problem for Constance, who normally has no trouble whatsoever putting her thoughts into words. Today, however, the words won't come.

She puts her pen down. She picks her pen up. And then she smiles again. Because Constance now knows exactly what she wants to write. Just below her poem, she begins her letter.

Dear Kate,

How are you doing? I suspect that you've been eaten by a frog, because that's the only excuse for not having written to me in so long.

Kate, who was a letter hog,

Was eaten by a hungry frog.

Her friends didn't notice, to her dismay,

'Cause Kate didn't write us anyway.

I'm fine. It's snowing here, and Mr. Benedict's making pie tonight. He's not a good cook, but at least it means he gets his head out of his books sometimes.

Mr. Benedict is a bad cook.

His cooking's so bad that he's a cook crook.

But it means he stopped reading, so quick – take a look!

It's the first time in years he's not reading a book.

Number Two says hello, and Rhonda says greetings, and Mr. Benedict says, "I do hope that she'll write back this time. I do miss hearing from her." Write back!

Sincerely, Constance Contraire.

P.S. Write back, or I shall be prompted to compose a poem about you which you probably won't like.

With a broad smile, Constance reads over the letter. It is a fine composition – one that she herself would be delighted to receive. It is just the right mixture of rudeness and poetry for her. She's sure that Kate will be irritated by it, which only encourages the younger girl to send it.

Scents of pie waft up from below, and Constance, feeling immensely pleased with herself, folds the letter into a vaguely envelope-sized shape. Then, drawn by the promise of pie (for even when poorly made, pie is still pie), Constance goes downstairs.


Author's note – Drabbley drabbley drabble. Complete fluff, but kinda fun to make. At any rate, reviews would be very much appreciated – as always. Thanks!

~Grammar Defender~