Just a quick vignette/flash fiction piece type thing. There’s less than a week left of winter now, and this is about winter and spring and the death of seasons. I hope you enjoy this.
I’m not dead yet. I’m breathing my last but don’t be so quick to celebrate.
Don’t write me off. This aging body of mine may not be as potent as it once was, but it still works. I still have the strength to cast the spell that will summon the rain and the wind, the cold and even snow. No, I’m not finished yet. The leaves are yet to appear as buds on the trees, it may be weeks before you can pack away your winter coats. That thin blanket of frost crystals is not yet packed away, I can get it out at any time.
You can wake up tomorrow safe in the knowledge that I’ve retreated into myself, but don’t let the hubris destroy you. Should the fancy take me, I could rustle up the strength to blast you with cold air, pulling it down from the Siberian landscape that is my heartland.
I’m not dead yet so don’t mourn what is about to pass.
The crisp mornings, the biting wind, the snow and frost that gives a landscape a haunting beauty not seen at any other time of year, are not gone yet. No, I am not finished. The leaves are yet to appear as buds on the trees, you can still enjoy the warmth of the wooly hats, scarves, and gloves, protecting you from my violent mood swings.
You may wake up tomorrow to snow, even a thin layer will cast your mind back to childhood, of Christmases and snowmen, and that distinct yet agreeable muffled crunch as it compacts beneath your feet, your breath billowing in mushroom clouds of cold air. You don’t get that at any other time of year. Who doesn’t miss the low-lying fog as it dances about your feet? The thicker, higher blankets envelope mystery; what might come out of it has inspired many horror stories.
No, I am not dead yet. My name is winter and I am always there – powerful, dangerous, beautiful.
A new serial is coming soon, so keep reading!