In some places, winter consists of snowball fights and thick coats and gloves. Our winter is different. Our winter is storms and hail and fifteen degree days followed by six degree nights. Our winter is harsh and, compared to the soft beauty of other winters, a monster. But, sometimes, it can be soft. It's soft when siblings huddle together under woolen blankets, the thunder and lightning outside the window adding mood to their horror movie marathon. It's soft when a boy smiles as he boils the kettle after his girlfriend pleads with him to venture into the freezing, tiled kitchen and make her a cup of hot chocolate.
In winter, the air is thin, biting into flesh and bringing hot blood to the surface of skin. The sky is monotone and bland, a deep, charcoal grey like iron in the sky. The trees are dead, bare skeletons. But there is also the sun, gleaming through empty forests in the early hours of the morning. There are flowers and animals preparing themselves for a colourful spring. There are burning hot bonfires on the front lawn, accompanied by the full sounds of acoustic guitars and the warm feeling of laughter permeating the air.
On the outside, winter is bitter and jarring - but when the right people look at it with the right eyes, it can be beautiful.
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war zone / one-shots+poems
Short StoryA collection of things that don't belong. // Poems and short stories. Check triggers at the beginning of each chapter. //
