Missery

That is the only way Gonga can describe the weather he has been experiencing the last few days. He has decided that his state should not be Missouri. Instead, he prefers to mispronounce it as “mis-sery.” Rain and snow, and sleet and freezing drizzle. And all of that in the past week!

Gonga staggered past the Student Union, wind whipping around the clock tower and catching him sideways. A damp newspaper fluttered through the gust and plastered itself to Gonga’s leg.

There were times his job did not pay him enough.

Gonga peeled the newspaper off his leg and decided that this was one of those times. He didn’t care how many flyers he had left in his satchel, it was time to go home. No one else was out in this weather anyway.

The suitcase carrying Gonga’s accordion tugged wearily at his shoulder as he headed toward his downtown apartment. The wind cut through his fur, chilling him to the bone. Just a few more blocks and he would be inside his nice, warm quarters. Just a few more steps.

He caught himself as he slipped on a icy patch on the sidewalk. That wasn’t right. Rain spattered around him, on his face, in his fur, on his suitcase; and yet he almost killed himself on ice. Ice and rain should not exist in the same location at the same time.

Missery.

Gonga decided.

This state should be called Missery