Microfiction
Perception. Content Warning.
Gerald wasn't favored among the community, he was the man with no home or job. The man who would frequent the front of local stores such as Starbucks, holding a sign that said “Anything helps.” Most people would blow him off, casting nasty glares his way. Some even boldly shouting “Get a job filthy junkie!” But they didn't know Gerald's story like me. I first met him while he was outside my apartment one night. I asked how he was. He told me he was just trying to get some food for dinner before he headed home. I asked where he lived, and he said “The ol’ Barnes shack.” I offered to buy him some food, then take him home. During our meal Gerald told me how he was a veteran in the Vietnam war. He told me some horrible stuff that went on, and that he hadn't been the same since he got home. He was diagnosed with major PTSD. He was part of some government programs to help Vets, but that help only extended so far for someone as himself. So the streets had been home for him for many years now. After that, I made it a point to bring him a hot meal every Sunday night. It was a particularly cold winter this year, so I brought extra blankets too. Walking into the building I noticed snow everywhere from all the busted windows. I went to his spot, and started to cry. For there he lay, beautifully frozen in place.
By Tressa Rose3 years ago in Fiction
The Marble Fall
When the royal city fell it took a side of the mountain with it. Snow, rock and once set stone tumbled themselves in front of the avalanche and re-dusting snow. The sun caught snowflakes scattering in the air, shining briefly as confettied glitter at the Prince’s birth or the Queen’s army returning from a victory in parade. Though for us this was no celebration. The city was our place to trade our harvest and buy supplies we needed to see us through the winter. We rode from our farm late this year, as the blight brought from the invading Brybgentos took portions of the crops in disease. The Queen would not accept a lesser tally than required and Uncle Awron was never short. Flurries already patched the ground as we left, but the snowline always stood higher up the mountainside. Now the place fell as a slab of marble twisting as a broken bird, like the ones Uncle Awron shot on the edge of our wood. With that we knew the Queen was dead.
By G. Douglas Kerr3 years ago in Fiction
Blizzard Encounter
In a bitter 1968 blizzard, Sandi was driving her parents’ VW bus on an Illinois two-lane road. Snow was drifting into tall piles because of the sideways wind. She couldn’t see more than a car length in front of her but kept going, hoping her headlights would warn oncoming traffic. It was dangerous to continue in the blizzard, but she had to get to the destination and trusted her instincts and driving skills.
By Andrea Corwin 3 years ago in Fiction
Lost in the Wild
The cold, biting winds howled through the dense forest, dancing through the swirling snowflakes. Under the canopy of shivering trees, a small wolf pup, lost and alone, struggled to navigate through the thick blanket of snow. She whimpered softly, searching for her mother, separated by an unexpected snowstorm.
By Varsha Elizabeth3 years ago in Fiction
Catharsis in Winter's Silence
Amidst the silent embrace of a snowy landscape, Eleanor stood alone, her breath crystallizing in the crisp air. The world around her was an immaculate canvas, a vast expanse of untouched snow that gleamed under the moon's pale glow.
By Deborah Rivera Valentin3 years ago in Fiction
Snow? Snow!
Snow doesn't happen often in this small town. We're nestled in a valley with towering sapphire blue mountains hugging us from all sides; the tops of those mountains is where the snow lives during winter. Sometimes, rarely, there will be storm that gives a quick flurry of sleet, but it doesn't stick for longer than five minutes.
By J. L. Green3 years ago in Fiction
Storm in a Teapot
Those who know, know. Tea is not just tea. The tea is the life. It's not just the caffeine and tanins that perks you up and mellows you out. It's the whole ritual. Really boiling the water, brewing the tea, selecting exactly the right mug. Wrapping your fingers round and sipping while it's hot.
By L.C. Schäfer3 years ago in Fiction
