Silversnow: A Short Story

As the frost crept up my window, each snowflake was perfectly plastered in front of me. They seemed as if they were putting on a show just for me, and I couldn’t help but imagine that there were tiny people living in each one. The soft hum of my mother’s CD’s played in the background as my little brother was fast asleep to my right. I brushed my fingers through my dolls knotted hair, feeling the itchy yarn envelope each finger. Looking out the window again all I saw were cars speeding past us, all rushing to get to their own winter plans.

“What?” I asked not sure what had happened. Still, he said nothing. His only other reaction was the long side glance right after I had asked him what had happened.

The evening was ominous and gray. The cold wind blew softly, and carried a heavy scent of blood through the streets. A loud intense screech pierced the ears of its listener, leaving the body trembling in fear.

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

In the northern section of the Lower Peninsula, there were leafless trees and snow flurries. I wished I could make my mind a white snow drift stretching between vacant lots. I wanted to lose my thoughts in the white fields. I wanted my memories to become concealed like the oak branches in a

It had white aluminum siding with black trim around the windows and black shingles on the roof. I walked the three wooden steps leading to a six by six storm shed. I removed my boots in the shed and opened the oak door, painted white on the outside. It led into a short hallway, which formed a T with the kitchen on one side and the dining room on the other.

The condensed snow under my feet was crushed with every step. The snow was around four inches deep, my boots made a large enough indent, that I made a noticeable trail of holes with every step. The sun had vanished behind a mountain, the sky’s light had gone from an amiable orange, to a mellow blue. I could see outline of the moon between two clouds, and the air’s bite grew colder by the moment. I had taken a detour, past a thin slice of trees near to my neighborhood. Even for a forest, it was a cold, silent place. I used to come out to places like this as a kid, quiet places where I would sit and be alone for hours. I guess I forgot how often that was, but for the moment, I had something else to worry about.

He finds himself walking through a graveyard and he sees the three different colored glowing balls of light flickering on and off and in and out of the tombstones and to throughout the graveyard itself.

All the visual imagery connect back to the white, peaceful, smooth snow. Each description show an calm, peaceful, relaxed mood towards it.

She trotted out into the splintering cold. It was so cold. It was freezing. Morgan could feel her legs rubbing against her thick, double layered jeans. It felt like if she continued walking any farther, she would rub her legs raw. She could see her breath as she exhaled in the chilling air. She could smell the crisp snow outside, and could feel the sting of the wind on her nose. And oh that wind, it was like a whip that never stopped lashing. Every time it stopped, you got a slight, fleeing sense of relief but it was never quite satisfying because you just know another killer ice-cold gust is

A soft breeze whispered through the trees, wrestling autumn-hued foliage to the ground. The draft of cool air caught the silky neckline of her robe and sent a chill racing through her. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the shedding branches, and a silhouette of the snow-capped mountains glittered in the background. Her long blonde hair was up in hot rollers, and a sudden gust pulled a thick tendril loose. She blew it out of her eyes, refusing to lose a staring match to

I sat near the window as a pop of orange then a strand of yellow started to appear. They gradually wove together in intricate patterns leaving a trail of light behind for the sun. The concoction of colours slowly revealed the barren world filled with nothing but white snow, sprinkled on its landscape. The sun followed pursuit of the blend of colours as it began its journey to the skies. Its rays penetrated through the windows bringing warmth that seeps into me along with the cold, frigid air of the Canadian winter. I would stay still to admire the view until the trance was broken by the familiar pressure of the student’s feet on my back.

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

If the snow had been masters at reflecting the glorious rays of sunlight, the ice sheets were gods. Fjola could hardly tell where the atmosphere stopped and the frozen lake began - everything she could see for yards and yards was mirrored perfectly by the ice. The whites and blues and yellows and faint dotted greens ran into one another until they were one, one unit, one item, one color; the color of amazement. The landscape was hard and sharp and crisp beneath a world coated by a facade of softness and kindness and love. But most of all was its sheer emptiness.

A chilled breeze caused my hair to stand up on end, so I peek over my shoulder to see the window in my bedroom door open. The blue, polka-dotted whipped around violently but I couldn 't hear the sounds of a strong wind. Huh, could have sworn I 'd closed that. . . I spring to my feet and shiver as I step across the cold floor toward my room. On my tip-toes, I pull the screen down to shut it and take a minute to stare out the window. The moon cast a dim light over the small town, illuminating only the fronts of houses and the tip of trees, abandoning all else to darkness. A light fog danced in the distance and I smiled thinking how perfect it looked on Halloween 's night. I looked down from the top floor one last time then tugged the curtains shut.