Sally couldn't understand why the snow burned her skin so as it fell upon her in soft, downy flakes. Then again, she had never liked snow, at least, not since it eradicated her family in a desperate attack. She lashed out at it repeatedly, but it swirled around her even more. It circled in.
That's when she remembered her blow torch. Without a second thought she pulled it from her pack. The weight was satisfying in her hand. She turned the knob and heard a satisfying his of gas. But there was no flame. Why didn't I buy the one with the automatic starter, she thought. She rifled through the bag, feeling her way to the bottom, until her fingers found the striker.
In her distration, the snow closed in on her. Each flake burned itself into her exposed skin: her face, her hands. It flew at her eyes and dove at her mouth.
She yanked the striker from her bag and tried to light the gas. On the third try it caught. A flame shot out of the end, yellow, red and blue. The snow melted and then shrank back. She saw this and laughed, a hysterical sound absorbed by the spirialing flakes.