Read a sample
Read a short story from Dreams of Nostalgia
Hostility of Winter
A silent force whips through the trees. Peeking in between the blinds, I watch as snow shakes free. Falling from a branch, it piles upon itself. Growing ever larger, the blizzard continues unperturbed by my anguish. It disgusts me, this misery. I detest it so much that I want to cry.
For me, winter is a time of sorrow. A time to morn for the death of summer. Inside, I don’t laugh or celebrate; but instead, I sulk. I huddle and lament near the fire. Staring into dancing flames, I grimace. A sullen face, I pray silently for the passage of time.
The fires of hell are a lie, for the devil’s inhabitants rest in a realm of ice.
* * *
Shaking fists exhaust me. Staring out the window, I beg it to stop. The snow, the ice… the hell. It’s all frozen over. My car? A popsicle. My roof? A leaky mess. Yet, as I stand next to the bucket. Winter continues to fill it. Mocking me with its steady drip.
Falling from the ceiling, a droplet holds its form. A perfect circle, it wobbles lightly. Held in the palms of gravity, it makes a splash. Rippling out, the liquid adds to itself. Leaving behind a small wave to slap the plastic edge.
I lose it. Kicking out, the bucket slides. Throwing a gallon onto the floor.