Cold - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The cold moves in only to meet the warmth of my blood, my defence against such ice. I feel it wash over my skin, again and again, only to be met by the beat of my heart, again and again. The truth is, as hard as it is, that so long as I keep moving I'll win. The ones who stop are the ones who freeze; the victors reach the safety of home because one foot always moves in front of the other in defiance to the wind, in a rage against the winter blasts, at ease with the volcano that breathes under this snowy mountain top.
Tomorrow the promise of spring will blossom as flowers do, yet today the wind blows cold, the last serenade winter's song. Upon the grass there is snow, much like sprinkled sugar over cake. The frigid air has a way of keeping us in the moment, wicking away body heat faster than it is replaced. It's one of those days when normal clothes aren't enough, when they feel thinner than they are. Breaths rise in puffs, arms hug each body tightly and there is a briskness to movements that will melt with the snow. Come tomorrow faces will reflect the warmth of the sun in their smiles; today they show resilience and a will to prevail.
Bitterly cold and humid - such an enchanting combination. Every surface, every blade of grass and twig is growing long ice crystals ten or more millimetres in length. They are little forests of ice, pure white "trees" growing without roots. On the metal mailbox, the "Canada Post" writing can still be read beneath them. In a way the box looks like it's wearing a fleece sweater, yet of course it is utterly bereft of heat. When Ted gazes into the distance he sees the low fog that clings, hiding the homes at the top of the street; he feels it too - winters breath on his skin. It whisks heat away leaving him pale even though his blood still runs warm.
That morning, the woods were filled with an ominous brittle silence. There was a shriek from the trees that Henry said was a branch twisting under the sheer weight of ice. I had opened the curtain to the blue dawn, but I hastily closed it against the cold diffusing across the window glass. In our unheated room, our breath was vapor, and the floorboards cold to the pads of our feet. Henry's nose was red, and the tip of mine was numb.
The runaways didn't even have words to describe temperature and weather in their vocabulary. They had never experienced either. The synthetic fabrics of their all-in-ones was designed for their air conditioned lives as human code slaves. It gave no protection against even a spring breeze, let alone the bitter onslaught of winter. The wind penetrated the polyester fibres with absurd ease and every drop of icy rain soaked through the instant of it's impact. Their body heat didn't so much as drain away or leach out slowly, it abandoned them with callous speed to leave them helpless and shivering too violently to either flee or communicate. When Emma began to cry the tears left frozen track marks on her face and they would have gone with anyone who promised them warmth, even if it meant captivity again.
Cold licked at her face and crept under her clothes, spreading across her skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach. With purple lips tinged with blue and gently chattering teeth she wrapped her thin coat around her tighter.
The cold that had seemed mild at first now numbed his face and extremities. What residual heat he had absorbed in the lodge was gone, it had been his buffer, but unwittingly he had squandered it believing his thick winter jacket and boots equal to the task of preserving his body heat. With each breath more heat rose in puffs of white vapour, with each gust of the wind more heat dissipated into the whiteness, with each step the rocks and ice pulled more heat from his marrow. He had stopped composing wintry poetry of icicles and the spectre of the world under a pristine white blanket and instead tucked his chin to his chest and made for home. All the while he fervently tried to wish away the ice that clung to his new beard. He had a lot to learn about life in the wilderness. Everything he knew about the city was utterly redundant and with no wifi he couldn't just google the answers.
The biting cold chilled his fingers into clumsy numbness, cold seeped into his toes and spread painfully throughout his feet as if it were his bare feet on the pristine icy whiteness rather than sneakers. His lips turned a more blueish hue and his teeth chattered like a pneumatic drill. He began to loose his sense of time, had he been out there for minutes or hours? The frigid wind poked him like icy fingers and wrapped around him like a shawl woven from the snow itself.
Cold stalked her through the mountain passes like a specter death, the bitter wind laughed as it tore right to her heart and turned her blood to icy sludge. Her muscles began to ache and grind like the cogs in old machine.
Below there is such a commotion, I can tell by their silhouettes that they're highly agitated. They convene in a huddle after an hour of fruitless searching and chant into the woodland that is in near blackness. The heat from my body is rapidly leaching into the night air, my muscles are stiff from staying still so long but I dare not move until the dawn, until I am officially the first girl to escape them. As the slow minutes drag by I regret my choice of clothing, it's light and great for an evening jog but useless as insulation. I might as well be immersed in a bath of ice for all the protection it affords me. Then just when I think I am safe hypothermia kicks in and my hand develops a tremor. My muscles will shake uncontrollably in the next few minutes while my body makes a last ditch attempt to reheat before it concedes to the bitterness. The Greapers must be gone by now, disappointed and whining, but the possibility of a sentry left lurks in my thoughts.
He couldn't bare it. The wind cut through his skin and tortuously slashed his marrow with constant harsh blows, like rime daggers, as they moaned in the pleasure that was his pain. The snow beneath his feet jumped up in a great flurry, and licked his face with curious tongues constantly nipping at his nose. The barren trees teased and laughed while cutting him with thin wooden rapiers. But out of all this his burden most lie with the hoarfrost that flew in the air and grew nearly on every branch, cliff, and limb. It worked to sharpen the rapiers, to push in to his skin and inflict great pain, and to turn his misery into their salvation. Oh how he loathed the winter days.
The laughing wind crept up to me, following me up the mountains, hissing at the warmth of my body. The cold readied to strike at me with its poisonous venom like a snake. My heart was pumping slower due to the icy frost burning my body. I was still - frozen in my tracks and unable to move. My face was purple and my lips were blue. I was wrapped in a coat with several tops on that felt like a million. My body craved warmth and screamed for help. But alas, no one heard.
I have underestimated the cold tonight, not like me at all, and I can’t run with this load to warm. I’m marching but the night air is wicking my heat away faster than my body can replace it. I could turn back of course, but then what if Darwin wakes? What then? I leave him screaming at the door? No thanks. Right now he’s asleep, or at least I have no reason to think that he isn’t. The blocks pass in a blur, no-one but me is out tonight. Just when I think everyone got their trades in the market and went home, two Happy Boys round the corner, typically muscular and tall...
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
Sometimes in winter when he did not have to go to sea he read one of the well-thumbed volumes by the aid of a tallow dip. The blaze in the fireplace was always piled high, but even this was but little if any shelter from the cold. The places where the chinking did not fit were numerous, and the way the cold wind poured into the room made the words of an old writer perfectly apparent: "While one side of the inmate was toasting the other was freezing."
I clasp the flask between my hands even though the warmth from the tea has long since leached into the frozen air. My muscles are clenched tight against the cold. If a pack of wild dogs were to appear at this moment, the odds of scaling a tree before they attacked are not in my favor. I should get up, move around, work the stiffness from my limbs.
The window is single pane. It's old but not attractively so. It's just the kind they threw in twenty years ago expecting it to last fifteen at the most. Even inches away it's like standing in front of an open refrigerator. No matter how much heat I pump out from that three-bar gas fire it just flees out of the window or up the chimney. Last year I bought that thin plastic stuff that's supposed to make it double glazed, this year I spent the cash on a thicker coat at the thrift store. Doesn't make the skin on my face any warmer or stop the condensation that pools on the peeling ledge, but it made more sense at the time. Now at least I don't look so poor out on the street, unless they look closely at my shoes. But who does that? Who cares anyway?
I know the season has fully turned when bath day is something to dread. In the fairer weather each week passes by less pointedly, marked only by the finer food we eat on a Sunday and by the long sermons in church. But in these long dark months of winter the usual tepidness of the wash is so icy that I'm left shaking and blue. There are weeks that I fake it, splash water on my chapped face and just wipe the worst grime from my hands and feet. I take the soap that has lost all trace of softness and rub it against the wooden metal tub. My hair I make just wet enough to pass mother's scrutiny and then keep it tight under a bonnet all week long. Then I pull on the next week's clothes, the ones I will wear 'till next Saturday evening, and they always feel so thin. In its utter coldness the fabric feels wet and steals even more of my precious body warmth. I want my sweater back but I'm not allowed it until I learn better manners...
Here in the trenches of France, 1915, the enemy is not only the Germans, but it is also the intruder. The "intruder" is the cold wind that whips above us. Then, descends to us also. When there is no noise of machine guns nor cannons, there is the whistle of the cold settling down upon us. We have make shift shelters, but none of them keeps the intruder out. Fellow soldiers shiver as they wait for the enemy to come over their trenches in attack us. Our runners tell us that the enemy suffers just as we do. If they are chilled to the bone as I am, then, I allow a little sympathy on them as fellow human beings. We are supposed to get relief and R and R every third day, but that rarely is enforced. The commander tells us that tomorrow, it may be our turn. But, today there is the possibly of attack, and the assurance that "the intruder" will come to live in our trench. At the moment, I dream of home, but not for the people as much as just to be warm.
The water was so cold it stung. Every touch stole Tom's heat, leaching away a few more fractions of a degree to take him closer to hypothermia. It wasn't just the rain either, it was the water that swelled at his feet, unable to soak into the already saturated ground. It crept up the fabric of his pants, clamping the icy fibres to his already frigid skin.
Melinda's hat was missing, her dark hair plastered wetly against her head. Her clothes were soaking wet, her lips were blue with cold and her teeth chattered. Scratches left by the blackberry canes streaked her young cheeks.
She pulled herself out of the glassy lake into the cooling early summer breeze, covered in goosebumps and shaking like the reed in a harmonica. She picked her way over the rocky beach on tip toe, arms waving like an inexpert tightrope walker.
The frigid air penetrated my skin, chilling my blood, sinking into the marrow of my bones like wet concrete.
Cold gnawed at my insides like a hungry rat.
Cold seeped into my innards like a freezing fog making it's way into my bones and wrapping around my brain like a wet blanket.
It wasn't a pleasant coldness. It was the kind that made you walk all the faster and brace your head against the wind. No matter how warm the blood in your veins, your face got frozen just the same. In spring time the water lies softly on the ground, but on that day it was solid to a drop in every from it could take. From soft snow underfoot to the icicles that hung from the railway bridge and the black ice that lay in wait on the freeway, nothing flowed. It was a day to stay inside and tend the fire, a day to reread that old book and to bake those cookies you always eat too many of. So the fact that Kingsley had called me out on another one of his half-baked missions was eating at me worse than the bitter air. I knew as I walked that if his little foray didn't pay off I'd be roasting marshmallows in my comfy socks the next time he sent his summons.
In that wasteland of white there was nothing for their minds to hang onto. There was no familiar sight, no sound other than the howling, even the light they needed to warm them was instead blinding and no match for the wind. Only the hearts beating in their chests stopped them from becoming as frozen as the landscape. When Lucy whirled around to at least see the tracks they had made, there were none. The only way to navigate was by the sun and in only a few hours it would sink below the horizon, leaving them shivering under the stars.
Cold is like the tiny feet of frost imps, marching their way down your arm. Cold is like minuscule teeth, nibbling on your fingers. Cold is like a drip of freezing water running down your back, jangling your nerves and setting your teeth on edge. Cold is like the fur of a frozen creature, brushing carelessly against your exposed limbs.
Cold water seeps into my shoes, stealing the heat from my soles just as fast as the wind steals from my face. My face is soaked, the drops coming together to run into my eyes and drip from my chin. My heat has run to my core to shelter and hoard the warmth that remains. For this long road, in this wintry storm, the frigid downpour and the icy puddles are my nemesis.
The water that had run so freely in the failing light of dusk was now trapped in icy form, beautiful under the glare of a flashlight but as solid as the frozen ground under boot. Gaila ungloved a hand and reached out to touch, recoiling as soon as she made contact. It wasn't just ice it was unnaturally cold. The kind of coldness that left her unable to warm without retreating back inside. If this was a taste of the winter to come she wasn't sure it would be that much fun. Sure the snow was pretty, but in a few weeks would it still be a little fun? Or would it simply be more white falling from dark skies? Already her money was on the latter but she could see her younger brother's eyes light up. Any day he could ski was a good day for him; the cold never bothered him - but then he was never foolish enough to unglove in the subzero wasteland.