We called it Spring when
babies, born through blizzards
were named after flowers—
thornless perennials with
coveted resilience to frost.
“Families that survive together thrive,”
Momma said as we taught
Lily and May to butcher rabbits,
hanging ivory furs to dry beside
bundles of rosemary
and thyme.
The hour feigned Summer when
icicles, clenched in rosy palms
bled over goosebumps—
the first victims of our
living room sun.
“We can rebuild,”
Dad promised as flames
devoured the house, and I trudged
over the snowy lawn, leading
sisters to the warmth
of motherly arms.
Autumn feasts came late when
neighbors, playing nurses mended
hunger and homelessness—
a debt that wore holes
in Mom’s pride.
“We can’t stay here,”
I decided the day after
Dad froze in the rubble
of a house he would never
rebuild, and I knew surviving
meant leaving home behind.
But we forgot Spring when
the blizzard, named after Boreas
seized us like runaways wanted for
stealing hope, and we called
Winter what it was
—bitter.
About the Creator
Sam Eliza Green
Wayward soul, who finds belonging in the eerie and bittersweet. Poetry, short stories, and epics. Stay a while if you're struggling to feel understood. There's a place for you here.
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More stories from Sam Eliza Green and writers in Poets and other communities.
Just Sixty Seconds
Oliver sat at a cold, grey steel-covered table. He knew he was next. The longer he sat here, the more confident he knew he wouldn’t make it. His hands were tied to the chair he was sitting on, pushed up against the steel table. A small camera in the corner of the ceiling with a tiny red flashing light was the only thing he was focused on. He felt sick to the stomach. He knew he didn’t have long.
By Joshua Maggs4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Oh wow. I have chills. It’s like seeing the word ‘goosebumps’ was foreshadowing my reaction to the ending. So beautifully written. I’m so happy I could find this piece today.