A Winter's Storm
- Creative Writing to Inspire -

The winter storm came to dominate, not negotiate, and it wrote its power in blackest cloud-ink. It told a tale of blizzards laced with hail, not to warn yet to boast. For handsome it was in its malignant glower, its all pervading pointless wrath. Not for a moment did it wish us to entertain Hope’s glimmer, Hope’s whisper of a wintry wonderland. No. No. Not one bit. For our souls to freeze in its frosty threat-promise was all part of its icy-pleasure. Then at once the air was thick with snow, as opaque as a fog, not falling fast yet in snowflakes the size of autumnal leaves.

 

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The winter storm was the coldest scold of rage, wiping the landscape whiter than a page. Upon the mountainside the forests swayed and ripped branches scudded as fragmenting confetti. The sky was enough to make night of day, to whittle each chancing little ray, to impose a grim-gloom past the sunset hour. Its wrath was its reign, its power its permission, and it governed the landscape all the way to ice-dereliction. Once it was done and its ‘masterpiece’ revealed, all wondered at the arctic wasteland scene.

 

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The blizzard bit the scene full-white, it blotted out even the meanest sight and shivered the cold air-raw. Within a howl of operatic range it spoke of its stormy rage. It desired to delete the halcyon days, to deny winter any claim of beauty, any stake in the concept of a wonderland. Its ice was not built to decorate, nor deep snow-packs bring seasonal joy filled fates. A storm is a slice of destruction’s code, not a believer in mercy or beauty. So save your odes for other weather, reserve your sorrow for Winter’s storm.

 

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