Short Stuffs - 5. Season's Call

Season’s Call

The air was cold and dry; the temperature was a chilly -20 degrees Celsius. The last snowfall had dumped quite a bit on this small town in eastern Ontario. The trees, mostly barren, were covered with a heavy dusting of frost and snow. Old Man Winter was back, and he was here to play his part once again. A few evergreens were leaning over; almost as if they were bowing down to salute his presence. They groaned a low, desperate wail under the weight. A thundering wail so indescribably low that any passersby would have mistaken it for generator five kilometres up the road.

Sleet now fell, slowly, but heavily, carving its jagged imprint into the snow and solidifying instantly. The sound of the icy pellets hitting the tin roof was constant like a drum; it caused a slight hum to reverberate from within the belly of the barn. It stood slanted in the open field, a ramshackle, rickety tribute of solitude. The strain of this new weight had caused it to shift; a crystalline mass suffocated the structure from top to bottom. It was hollow; a mere shell of what it used to be, for winter had already ravaged this place. This year, it had gotten greedy, and taken more than just the warmth from the lanterns hung haphazardly in the doorways. Despite this, there were tread marks leading away from one of the decaying doors. However, there was not a second set leading back in.

The icy wind blew harder and harder still. All that could be seen was a white mask threatening to cover the dilapidated face of the barn. Snow and ice threw itself around at high velocity. It piled itself higher, biting into any who dared to step outside of their homes. Not even those with sufficient candlelight or cover would dare venture out. They would wait for the cease the torrent’s roar. To those who did make the attempt to journey past this way, all that could be seen was the barn in an ever-blurring semblance of direction, that which had become a fusion of light and darkness. Hope and despair. The frigid night knew no mercy; as time waged on, even the temperature could scarcely fight the onslaught from above, and the temperature plummeted. Winter had come with a vengeance; eyes set to take his prize, and refused to leave. And he would not. For, the season had just begun, and winter hadn’t yet sated his hunger for life.

After a short slumber he’d come back with bated, frigid, breath. Whispering amongst the trees until their vivid colours fell to the ground in a careless heap, and withering flowers and fruit alike with his frosted footsteps. With a dizzying dance of cold, and contempt for all that is warmth and bright, the only price he dictates is life.

Why does winter covet the things we love the most?