If Snow be a Lady
By: Michael Cottle
Violins played in his head while he carefully walked down the icy sidewalk. Some of the violins wailed out a lone melody, and some echoed with an orchestra of chorus from the likes of Debussy. The music was his only companion, aside from the fleeing warmth that was leaving him in the cold.
It was snowing- beautiful and nasty all at the same time. As time went by, it was only the wet and cold that mattered. The rest was for show. The visual dance of the delicate snowflakes, the puddles of ice and water on the low areas of the sidewalk, the sound of the wind and the slushing sound of his boots- none of these things mattered.
Some cars passed by on the street oscillating loosely in and out of traction with the road. Luke knew the heaters were running on the inside keeping the travelers warm. Yet, they travelled a slippery surface, and with a moment of non-focus, disaster would unfold easily. They carried on, even as more snow fell on the asphalt. Fools, yes, they were, but who was he to judge? No one really. They were warm, and he was cold. A silly way to assert your inferiority, he thought.
But the cold was real. The temperature was of substance. Luke felt the cold instantly upon entering it. With enough time, he would become it. He could stay warm for a time, but the temperature would become too much. It would overcome him. He was not enough to defeat it, and he never would be. Beautiful as the snow was, he was not enough for it. Perhaps it was courage that he lacked. If he only believed that he could stand against it, then he might. No, this cold, new world would change him- given enough time. When he made another block, he began to shiver.
If he ever made it back, he would dress accordingly. With many layers of protection, the cold would never get to him again- ever. The cold would not know him again. Beautiful, yes, but he could never make it in that world for very long. It was never meant to be.
Returning home, he felt the old familiar warmth. He removed his protective layers, one-by-one. In time, he could be himself again. For now, the warmth was slow to return. The cold had almost followed him in, but much like himself, the cold could not last in this world either.
Later that evening, Luke sipped a hot mug of fresh coffee. Only the memory of the cold remained. He stared out the window as more snow began to fall. A beautiful, mysterious world it was to see. A few flakes stuck to the pane and Luke reached out for them as he touched the glass in return. As to what they were saying, he was as clueless as ever.
By: Michael Cottle
Violins played in his head while he carefully walked down the icy sidewalk. Some of the violins wailed out a lone melody, and some echoed with an orchestra of chorus from the likes of Debussy. The music was his only companion, aside from the fleeing warmth that was leaving him in the cold.
It was snowing- beautiful and nasty all at the same time. As time went by, it was only the wet and cold that mattered. The rest was for show. The visual dance of the delicate snowflakes, the puddles of ice and water on the low areas of the sidewalk, the sound of the wind and the slushing sound of his boots- none of these things mattered.
Some cars passed by on the street oscillating loosely in and out of traction with the road. Luke knew the heaters were running on the inside keeping the travelers warm. Yet, they travelled a slippery surface, and with a moment of non-focus, disaster would unfold easily. They carried on, even as more snow fell on the asphalt. Fools, yes, they were, but who was he to judge? No one really. They were warm, and he was cold. A silly way to assert your inferiority, he thought.
But the cold was real. The temperature was of substance. Luke felt the cold instantly upon entering it. With enough time, he would become it. He could stay warm for a time, but the temperature would become too much. It would overcome him. He was not enough to defeat it, and he never would be. Beautiful as the snow was, he was not enough for it. Perhaps it was courage that he lacked. If he only believed that he could stand against it, then he might. No, this cold, new world would change him- given enough time. When he made another block, he began to shiver.
If he ever made it back, he would dress accordingly. With many layers of protection, the cold would never get to him again- ever. The cold would not know him again. Beautiful, yes, but he could never make it in that world for very long. It was never meant to be.
Returning home, he felt the old familiar warmth. He removed his protective layers, one-by-one. In time, he could be himself again. For now, the warmth was slow to return. The cold had almost followed him in, but much like himself, the cold could not last in this world either.
Later that evening, Luke sipped a hot mug of fresh coffee. Only the memory of the cold remained. He stared out the window as more snow began to fall. A beautiful, mysterious world it was to see. A few flakes stuck to the pane and Luke reached out for them as he touched the glass in return. As to what they were saying, he was as clueless as ever.