By Alicia Peterson

When my grandkids ask about the Halloween Blizzard Invasion of ’91, I do what everyone my age does. I lie through my teeth.

“Did Great-Grandpa Dave really let you run the flamethrower?” Six-year-old Nora asks the same question every time. I can practically see fire reflected in her hungry eyes as she imagines wielding the family flamethrower now, instead of having to wait until she’s twelve like her sister.

“All gassed up and extra-heavy.” I set down my crocheting and lean forward to squeeze her tiny bicep. “And I wasn’t strong like you. I nearly toppled over when I tried to blast the Purp!”

Nora grins with satisfaction. Willow rolls her eyes. She knows I’m bending the truth. She doesn’t know how much.

We didn’t own a flamethrower. No normal family did. Not until years later, when we realized it was the only way to fight back.

By then, it was already too late to save the farmland and forests. Cold winters and warm summers are exactly what Extraterrestrial Purple Snowthorn needs to thrive, and it stole every inch of land it touched.

Purp arrived as a blizzard of crystalline seeds disguised as ordinary snow. Come spring, it was unstoppable.

Sixty years later, massive vines fill every open space, crisscross every road, and scale every building not protected daily with fire. One global, interconnected purple beanstalk. Fee Fi Fo Fum.

Only government workers and the very stubborn still live here. I used to be in the first category, creating experimental plants and herbicides. Purp resisted every graft and formula, and I retired with nothing to show for it but crazy ideas no one would fund. Now I’m in the second group—just another stubborn old woman.

I watch gray clouds gathering outside the window.

Willow narrows her eyes. “Collaborators make a lot of excuses, Nana. Did it really look like snow?”

Sheesh! Any wonder we became liars? “Snow? Ha! We knew better! But they overpowered us. All we could do was curse the sky and wait.” I shake my head. “It was a dark, dark night.”

My granddaughters lean in, transfixed yet again by the tale of their Nana’s heroic defiance. I told their father the same thing when he was young. Barely even feel guilty anymore.

The dirty truth is, the Halloween Blizzard was pure magic for me.

Before you report me as a Collaborator, tell me: Were you there? Yes, an invasive alien species fell to Earth, and instead of destroying it while we could, we welcomed it with open arms. Save the outrage for your social feed. You’d have done the same.

When I say “open arms,” I mean that literally. My friends and I spread our mittens wide as we walked and watched the flakes pile up on us. Lena had a perfect white cone on her head. She made volcano noises.

We were fourteen! What did we know about meteors grazing the atmosphere or reports of strange debris clouds? Our biggest concern was whether anyone from school would see us trick-or-treating.

We worried it was childish. But we were still children, more than we wanted to admit. So, we giggled nervously and walked through town in thrown-together costumes, skipping and laughing down the middle of snowy, deserted streets with childish joy.

Not much joy around here anymore.

Today’s Public Service Entertainment Special starts playing on the kids’ tablet, and they shift their attention to it. I return to my crochet.

“Remember, kids: Burn ’em low, it’s the way to go!”

“If you leave it alone, you won’t have a home!”

Catchy.

My son walks in. “Time to go, girls. Mom, will you join us for dinner?”

I smile brightly. “Thank you, sweetie, but it’s Bingo night.” This is normally true, but tonight Lena and I have other plans.

He glances at the sky. “Make sure you get home before the snow.”

I kiss his cheek. “Yes, dear.”

Another lie.

They say their goodbyes. The moment the door closes, I head for the basement. I have supplies to gather.

***

“Pull over here!” I slap Lena’s shoulder.

“Calm down, I see it.” She navigates her hovercar over the fat tangle of Purp overflowing from the ditches. “Is this the last one? My daughter will send the National Guard if I’m out past nine.”

“Last one.”

The snow started to fall an hour ago. It flies out from under our repellers as we cross onto the only baseball field left in town.

We park by the dugout, and I step out, careful not to slip. My hips ain’t young anymore.

“What do you think? Left field? They’re giving up here. No flameguard next spring.”

Lena squints blindly in that direction. She really shouldn’t be driving at night. “Do it.” She cranks up the heater and leans back to wait.

As I walk out, I pull the last of my creations from the bag.

A crocheted potholder.

It’s actually a counter-invasion device. But also, it’s a potholder. I interwove young Purps with Jackvines—my own botanical invention. The best results came from a half double crochet stitch with an N hook.

The vines will grow together, separate but inseparable. If I’m right, the collective Tangle will incorporate this Purp come spring and take my hitchhiking Jackvine along. Soon enough, the chemical axe hidden inside Jack will seep into the giant and bring the whole beanstalk down.

The die-off won’t be Hollywood fast, but it’ll spread.

I pull the woven edges even out of habit. I haven’t gone yarn bombing in decades. Knitted hats on parking meters were more photo-friendly than potholders under the snow, but times have changed.

I sweep away a patch of fast-falling snow and lay the potholder on the grass. It’ll be hidden and ready for spring in no time.

As I walk back to the car, I turn my face to the nearest Purp and blow a big, wet raspberry. Then I throw my arms wide and laugh into the sky.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alicia Peterson is a former librarian and lifelong nerd. Her hobbies include crocheting Doctor Who-themed ponies, reading all the informational signs while hiking, and playing the oboe. When she’s not writing flash fiction, she is working on Middle Grade and YA sci-fi/fantasy. She lives in Northern Minnesota with her husband, two young sons, one handsome but neurotic dog, and 29 accidental chickens.

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