He’d treasured that winter. Record snow. Briskly cold.
Mother had carefully arranged a scarf around his neck while he watched the children’s snowball fight. He stifled a chuckle when father clumsily slipped on the ice.
Only when his charcoal eyes slid down his melting frame did the reality set in.
Alison treasures the winter and loves lots of snow.
She came for the gaping sky and arctic terns. But winter is slowly encasing the huts, the interminable statistics, the bickering. And the birds have gone.
Shedding her coat and boots to lighten the load, she steps into the snow, migrating south.
Despite only being 51˚ N, Tamsin is also dreading winter.
It begins early evening, lasts twelve hours
Resolute, incessant, deliberate
Weighing down the coloured canopy still clinging to the branches
Seeping its way into covered porches, rusting brake drums, and the joints of old men
Cold, wet, relentless
I pull the quilt over my head, for just ten minutes more
Paul Hock wrote this story.
Winter aged me,
took away muscle tone
with each mound of snow
I stared at my flaccid arms and legs.
Surely they belonged to someone else,
my mother perhaps…
when she was ninety.
Then spring arrived
With its noisy insistent presence.
Too much growth –
I’m done with that.
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
That first, immaculate, unfurling leaf. It knocked her sideways every year, felled her with its soft, green promise.
So many dead months of waiting. Did the arms of the beech sprawl up in silent prayer? Did they cling to the same frail hope? Maybe… this time… spring would never end.
Tamsin is certainly very glad to have escaped another grey British winter.
One cold winter’s morning,
not so long ago,
the knights grumbled and complained,
as they strapped on their protective armor.
Boots, gloves, chest protectors, and hats.
They mustered by the door, reluctantly ready.
The trumpet sounded,
dad opened the door,
and watched the kids race to catch the school bus.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Snow fell as he stared blankly at the photo of her. His other hand held an axe. One tree stood amidst stumps in glaring white.
Firewood was needed. But she planted this…
He sighed, pocketed the photo and swung the axe with tears. He’d save some for a photo frame.
Joey tries to write a little.
The girl just could not dress for summer. Her entire bedroom knew. It’d seen the fustrated flinging of sundresses, the disappointed stares into mirrors and magazines.
Finally, one scorching morning, she found her usual glossy substituted for Scandinavian Housing Bimonthly.
She left an OxFam bag of ugly t-shirts and flew.
Jessica Croot is a 16 year old high school student currently in the process of obtaining qualifications and rapidly losing hope regarding her later life. When not writing stories consisting of precisely 50 words she enjoys writing brief biographies about herself (and reading).
Just before dusk, the sun crept up to the horizon. He stealthily surveyed the dark but bustling city laid out before him.
The sun sprang forward, dashing across the sky at breakneck speed and vanishing on the other side.
If he was lucky, no one would notice he’d been late.
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.”