We’re having a proper snowstorm—wind blowing sideways, schools cancelled, roads unplowed.
We’ve been expecting it, yet we are surprised and take inventory of our supply of bread, milk, and toilet paper.
All the while, there is a stirring of Spring bulbs, waiting to erupt in a blaze of ego.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
Some said, “He ran off with another woman.” Others suspected she drove him away.
And so the rumours continued, until he was found in a ditch with the soft spring sunlight slowly melting the ice and snow that covered him, after being fatally injured by a hit and run driver.
Connell wrote this in good spirits for those languishing in the warmth of spring as he begins to enjoy the increasingly dark and refreshingly nippy mornings of autumn.
She arrived atop of hill wheezing like a cracked bellows. Her ragged breathing stoked her brother’s competitive fires, and like a shot he was off again, skidding across the snow aboard the rusty old toboggan.
THWUMP! He hit the jump. The sled broke cleanly in two.
He hooted: “I win!”
This story was based on the prompt “wheezing” at TypeTrigger.
A final luxury granted to the condemned: “How would you like to go?”
He contemplated deeply, finally requesting the warm numbness of hypothermia.
In this land of sun and sand, his choice spoke to a greatness of spirit that moved the tribunal’s hearts.
But it didn’t move them that far.
Today’s story is based on a title suggested by @stealingzen.
“Freezabunga, dude! Let’s go snow surfing!”
“You mean snowboarding?”
“Yeah, man, surfing on giant waves of snow!”
“I don’t think that’s actually… You know what? Never mind. It sounds awesome! Let’s do it!”
The newly installed wave machine on the ski hill made it super wicked gnarly tubular rad.
After thirty days of rain, the clouds got bored, so they made it snow, instead.
People whined and complained, but the clouds didn’t speak English, because they had come from Brazil.
The local government hired some Brazilians to complain to the clouds on their behalf. It didn’t really work, though.
Winter. Thick snowflakes were making an exodus from the wombs of the clouds.
“Existence is suffering, but I believe our essence lives on and ascends to the Cloud Mother to be reborn,” said Seth Snowflake. “Life is a cycle.”
“That’s stupid,” said Sam Snowflake. “Life sucks, and then you melt.”