Wintery Wednesday

Zeus and I (photo credit: Vicki Morrison)

As a result of this wickedly wintery weather we've been having, I've been working a lot on my WIP tentatively titled FROZEN. It's set in present-day rural Maine, in a snowmageddon type of storm, and the world's supply of oil is basically gone. I posted a small excerpt a few weeks ago.

Anyway, it's pretty easy to work on something like this when just walking outside freezes your nostrils shut. Today's high is in the -15F range. I've been soaking in the heat from the woodstove, working on this and having a rather good writing streak.  Thought I would share a bit more with you all. Keep warm and enjoy.

It’s so cold the snow makes that squeaking sound as I walk down the driveway. My nose hairs freeze together and my breath fogs the air, blurring the winter world before me. I’m thankful for Mom’s coat, which is too big but warm, and for my new mittens that I managed to knit myself with only a couple of dropped stitches. I'll never be a competitive knitter, if such a thing exists. Bomber barks and strains at his chain as I walk by, not to hurt me but because he’s not keen on being left alone outside.

“Sorry, Bomb,” I mutter through my already-damp wool scarf. “I’m late.” He whines once and then disappears through the crooked door of his shack. He’s not sticking around in the cold. Smart dog.

I trudge down to the road—squeak, squeak, squeak—trailing behind Frankie and Meadow, the twins, wishing I could stay home where it’s warm. No such luck. I pull my scarf further up around my face and scrunch my neck to escape the wind, mentally reviewing my list as I turn right and head down the hill to the stop. Fire stocked, check. Lights off, check. Animals fed, check. Door locked, check… the roaring of the bus behind me interrupts my list.

“Crap.”

Our bus driver is notorious for leaving kids in the dirt. “Crappity-crap.” I grasp my bag tightly, and sprint the last hundred feet to the stop—skidding to a halt at the same time as the bus. The door screeches even louder than the brakes, and old George the bus driver scowls as I follow my brother and sister on, slamming the door shut with a squeaky clunk. The whole bus could use a coat of oil. I can hear my dad’s voice in my head. It all comes down to oil now, Janie-girl. We don’t have it…and only those who know how to live without it will survive.

 

 

Brenda.