Analysis Of ' Snow ' And ' The Blizzard '

The story “A Blizzard under blue sky” by Pam Houston is about a woman who is not happy and very depressed. She makes a decision to go out into the wilderness. The woman believes that this adventure is the best cure for her even if it means death. She refuses to take any drugs that her doctor tries to prescribe her. She suffers from depression. Her friend Alex is very concerned about his friend and wonders why she would go out knowing that a bad snow storm is headed that way. So he offers her something that she can stay warm with, he offers her a heavy sleeping bag that is thickly layered for the coldest of winter days for her

Red bricks, wet and blurry, dark pavements, moist and slippery. Everything was doused in this unforgiving cold attack. Middle class shops were placed everywhere, conveniently providing shelter. Dark leaves shuddered violently against the harsh winds, birds no longer poised and positioned on long branches, where they used to sing.

I wrap my scarf around my neck and reach down to lace up my boots. Careful not to drop my cross body bag as it swings down, I stand up straight and walk out the door. As I lock the front door behind me, I inhale a deep breath. This is my favorite time of year. The air is brisk, yet the sun is warm on my skin. I begin my walk to work since my car officially died yesterday. This is the third time this month, but I don’t really mind. I love walking when the weather is like this. The sounds of leaves crunching beneath my feet sounds like music.

The cold, winter breeze nipped at my cheeks as I end my long day at work. I pull my hat on tighter as I make my way to my truck. Frustrated with the day I just had, I quickly start my car and speed out of the parking lot down the street. Static tickles my ears as I turn my radio up, switching from station to station. A familiar name catches my attention as I switch past one of the local new stations.

I took my suit jacket off and hastily shoved it into my backpack. I smiled as the air hit my body and started to dry the sweat that had gathered from wearing the suit jacket for three hours. Looking outside I saw what I expected. The grey lifeless clouds of the English winter hung over us and the almost freezing temperatures,

This short story by Tobias Wolff is about a father’s adventure with his son to the mountains for a ski trip. In this story of adventure, the father must earn the trust of his son and the trust of his wife. The author gives the hint that he and his wife are in turmoil with each other and based on the result of this trip and his ability to keep a promise could determine whether or not the marriage will continue on or will end in separation or divorce. The father of the boy has proven himself to be untrustworthy on past trips with his son. The story tells about the last time he took his son on a trip to a nightclub to see “Thelonious Monk,” a jazz musician and performer. Before this trip to the mountains to ski, “he promised, hand on heart, to take good care of (his son) and have (him) home for dinner on Christmas Eve.”

In the safety of your family’s beautiful neighborhood, you decide to wander. The sun shines above you. The air is brisk in a way you haven’t quite experienced. You are bundled up to protect against this unfamiliar cool. A hat pulled low to keep the heat in against the February chill.

I pulled my sweater tighter trying to lock out the cold weather; I should have listened to my mom about this. “Wear your jacket, Farah, It’s going to be a cold one!” Her words echoed in the back of my head like an endless loop; I knew something like this would happen. I started power walking in attempt to get to my warm, cozy bed as fast as I could, almost there.

"Do you ever see yourself, fantasizing, about snow?" She asked, unaware of the ignorance, that seemed to protrude, across her face. "We live in Texas, obviously." I snickered, as she shot me a look of annoyance, "I know." She began as she rolled her eyes, "To better explain it, have you forgotten the feeling of snow, not your mind, but your body, the feeling of it laying in your hands."

The sun was still out, but the balmy air was gradually turning cold, inclement. I could feel the temperature drop as the wind gusted in through the small crack of his window, circulating throughout the car. Behind me, more storm clouds loomed in the distance as though I was in a race to beat the darkening sky. A sudden peculiar feeling, a foreboding, swept over me.

In her New York Times article, journalist E. J. Graff describes the devastation in the city of Boston caused by epic record-breaking blizzards. In contrast to the beautiful pictures of a city covered under snow normally seen by the readers, she points out towards the despair of the people living in terrible conditions. Thus, she indicates that the historic ruin has destroyed roofs, roads, gutters and sidewalks. Moreover, it has closed schools, businesses, highways, public transport and forced people to be confined to their houses. And she claims that decades of underinvestment and alleged mismanagement by Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority have ceased the country’s oldest subway system. Additionally, she conveys the tragedy associated

The weather had been unseasonably cool when the residents of New York City and the surrounding area went to bed the preceding Saturday. In the early hours of Sunday morning, their

It was a cold day, so cold that your arms start to sting as if a needle is impaling the surface of your skin. The wind applies a force which feels as if your face is oozing with thick crimson red blood. The gray puffy clouds covered the sky and dropped small snowflakes onto the road’s surface. A man stood there, freezing, clearing the coat of thick white snow from the concrete road. His nose runs with a river of snot that floods out when the cold wind strikes. His sense of smell is heavily clogged by the slimy snot, but he can still smell the scent of the steamy hot chocolate which sits on the top of his snow covered car. His feet start to numb because of the cold flood which soaks through his boots to his white, silky socks. His feet feel as if he stepped into the freezing cold ocean. As if he fell through ice and he was stuck standing there. The vast pile of the ice white snow feels almost like a quicksand around his black rubber boot. Foggy figures of people shovel the big piles of snow off the sidewalks. They scrape and pick at the glossy white ice which sticks to the sidewalk like a little boy clinging to his mother's side. His feet still sting as if he was stepping on pins and needles. His hands are damp with sweat from grasping the curved metal shaft attached to a socket which holds the blade. The blade cuts holes into the thick powdered snow which is removed from the endless pile. The jet black shovel is filled with slushy snow and crystal shards of ice. The end of

It was a frigid day in December. I wore so many clothes that I looked like a penguin. Every breath I took makes a small cloud and scattered. The gloves I worn seemed to be mildness like paws. The buildings behind me were covered by the thick snow. The wall became more brick-red because of the spotless white snow. Some snowflakes drift down on my hair gently. The snow was heavy, but not much wind. My friends bounced from worm house and laughed to me. “We should build a snowman. The snow is heavy enough.” One of my friends advised. We all cheered and started to pile the snow together.

On a snowy and windy night, I was at Barnes & Noble in Green Bay with my friends, Alan and Karina. Christmas music played overhead, the smell of hot chocolate and freshly brewed coffee wafted over, the customers were kind and cheerful, and snow was beginning to blanket the parking lot outside. We were sitting near the cafe wrapping books to support their mom’s school fundraiser. I stared outside and remembered my mom’s warning of the large snowfall that was almost upon us. Around 7:15, the snowflakes were becoming larger and we could barely see outside the window.