Microfiction
Seattle snow
Seattle when it snows, is a major cause of concern for many. The dreaded four-letter word that arrives in winter causes people's veins to freeze and hairs on their forearms to stand on end as they slowly turn their eyes towards the sky, watching the first one, the second one, and then suddenly, a multitude of snowflakes whirring towards the ground. The pine trees and fir trees and the maple trees that are still naked without their leaves, slowly catching but quickly building up volume of snow as the tiny little flakes cling onto each other and welcome each other in a cold embrace, sitting on top of the tree branches, waiting.
By Just Daniel2 years ago in Fiction
27,890 ft. Content Warning.
Breath has always been mine without thought, but each frigid inhale is all-consuming here. I check my oxygen tank—there is enough to summit. I breathe to full capacity, yet I am not satiated. Every minute feels like a slow suffocation, a drowning on dry land. The more thought I give to the act of breathing, the more lightheaded I become. My heart pounds a deafening survival anthem, and suddenly, I have a sickening feeling that I will die here. Panic whips over me like the thrashing snow beating against my goggles.
By Kristen Balyeat2 years ago in Fiction
Ravens and the Cougar
Ravens tipped me off. Four feet of fresh snowpack, and I was sweating heavily. I had entered Mount Rainier grounds on a forest service road to trek in the backcountry at low altitudes. I had no desire to create or be caught in an avalanche, so I would snowshoe amongst the huge trees, away from the rivers.
By Andrea Corwin 2 years ago in Fiction
With You I Melt
The sun breached the clouds early that morning. Yesterday bore wild flurries, uncharacteristic of March. Thick, wet flakes blanketed the ground and stole silence deep into compacted earth, a whole foot deep. The usually sleepy street rang with the cries of children, squealing with delight as they sledded down the one hill. The Creator, not possessing a sled, had worked with singular concentration gracing her young brow, working the snow into spheres.
By Kate Kastelberg 2 years ago in Fiction
Go-Jo still no go?
Kiki just turned 18, had pink dyed hair and was a little over five feet tall. It had snowed the night before, and she was still at that age where she found being out in the snow fun. She scoffed down her rice and salmon, then threw some clothes on before heading outside.
By Timothy E Jones2 years ago in Fiction
