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Be prepared to be drawn into a short tale. A little bit mysterious, a little bit exciting, and maybe a little bit pensive. But definitely different from the other submissions posted up here on PMC, and absolutely worth your !

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The Uprising.

That name.

Fateful memories hit Rick,
his blocky body shaking like a resounding gong.

He slid forward,
trail of snow left behind.

Glancing upwards,
beams of cloud-filtered moonlight rained down into his garden.

Another one, soon.

Rick could sense it.
Taste it, even.

The scent of freshly cut grass filled the pumpkin patch,
air displaying odd aromas.

He opened his mouth, and tasted cinnamon.
A tiny hint.

Cinnamon, Rick thought. Old Steven and his friends made buns of those.
At this time of the year too.

Wish I could have known them better.
Rick couldn't anymore. They respawned somewhere else.

One night, creepers invaded.
Snuck up on them in their sleep.

Rick's snowballs useless. Many of his brethren caught in the explosion too.
Like a bad dream, they all vanished.

Oh Juniper, funny lad, why did you have to leave me?
Couldn't you have stayed to save me from my current lonely state?

Creepers, such meaningless creatures.
Always destroying, never creating. Where did they come from?

Crunching.

Spinning around, Rick looked at his plants,
pips in his pumpkin-hole eyes settling upon
neat rows of pumpkin vines.

They enthusiastically ran over the bulbous orange forms,
flanked by gentle carpets made of snow.

The snow, awakening from slumber,
combined, coalesced, churned.

Rick was excited,
his pumpkin hope flared within his icy body.

It had been ages since Mike saw an Uprising, but they were getting more and more common. He didn't have very fond memories of his own. That snowy night, lights were flashing all around. Metal dug itself into flesh. Shouts, violence and vibrations shook the earth. And then Mike became. His human masters had little time to pay attention to him. An exchange of arrows zipped past Mike's head. Some buried themselves into a nearby skeleton. The skeleton could not retaliate further and vapourised. Mike was stunned, but It commanded him to do something. So he formed snowballs and started to protect his master. His life of servanthood had begun.

This pumpkin shook, nearby leaves dropping off,
withering from their sapped strength.

Parts of the vine turned to twigs,
joining the swirling mass of snow in a supernatural waltz.

Shining pebbles, the colours of beetle's wings,
skittled towards the growing form.

The pumpkin, once inert,
had features creased into it,
carved by an invisible hand.

A great puff of snow, like a sneeze
surrounded the mixture, and it had happened.

A natural Uprising.

Mike reached out through It, trying to communicate. Like other snow golems, he had no voice box. What is your name?

Static fizzed through It. Sounding like sand being poured. The static grew rhythmic, and some noises began to phase out. Then sounds started playing in It. Mike's humans had called it music. Syncopated clangs, from imaginary anvils emerged from It. How odd. These natural Uprisen snow golems only seem to know music when they start. I guess I have to teach this one how to talk. Rick thought. Rick led the new golem back towards his abode, onto the slightly melted carpet of snow he left earlier.

But for now, your name is Melody.

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