It started with something small. The clip on her pen breaking under her fingers. Getting cut off in traffic. By lunch, when she saw her face in the mirror, she was too disgusted by herself to make eye contact. When she finally got off work, the whole world felt like it was turned against her, or that she has profoundly failed it somehow.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, as the saying goes. I feel like we overlook the more important question of, how did the snowball get there? Are we discussing an ice demon in the underworld? Can precipitation die? Does snow have a soul?
I just think we’re not thinking this thing through.
Should someone rescue the snowball?
I didn’t expect the situation to snowball so quickly, but once the fists started flying, I knew that sh** was going down. So I managed to hoist myself up on one of the tables in the cafeteria and just whistle, real loudly. Like, I don’t even know what came over me. Just this high-pitched, shrill siren’s call for attention that would’ve made my dog deaf even though he was ten miles away from my school. Everyone shut up. Everyone stopped hitting each other. One girl started whimpering like I’d hurt her ears. But they were all looking at me.
Poof. She giggled as it hit my face. The cold air had made her nose a bright pink, pulling the blood from my heart to warm her. She held the fire of the summer, even in the coldest of the winter.
Youthful folly. As a child is there anything more fun than a snowball thrown in good sport? Bringing a grin to your chin and making you feel so alive. The cold that cherries up your cheeks and pumps ice courage through your veins. You run, you leap you, hide from playtime ammunition, heart racing as you avoid a hit, hands steady as your aim ratings true. Then again, is there anything more malicious than a snowball thrown in hateful vengeance. The sting of cruelty you never realized you’d earned.
I feel sad because where I live there’s no winter with snow so I can’t make snowballs but I’m also happy because I had a chance to make when I was in Italy
I have only held a snowball a few times in my life. The desert is my abode. But it does snow at times, even here. And we do get to ball up that white stuff. It’s fun to thing of it. Throwing a snowball at someone. Or building a snowman with all them balls. It’s all about having fun; and sometimes, that involves a snowball or two, or three, or four…
it was a hot summer day. not a cloud in the sky. we were sipping lemonade in unison by the delightful sights of wind rippling across the cute waters, but then it started to snow. It snowed barrels and buckets but all we did was embrace it. we didn’t ever question it. we threw ever snowball we made except Jeremy, the lone and rejected snowball that no one liked. it was the best of days. then i woke up. i think i ate too much salsa, it makes me dream to much.
The rock began to roll, picking up debris in it’s path, gaining momentum, faster, faster, faster, faster.
Below, the car pulled slowly to a stop. She looked over at him as he turned off the ignition. “Well. Will you look at that?”
She threw the snowball with energetic rigor, refreshed by the soft scarf rubbing against her chin and the burning cold in her hand. She ducked behind the mound of snow, searching for her prey. She found it in the wiry form of Tommy, who was using his long, thin legs to run at inhuman speeds. She cursed under her breath at the challenge of such a fast prey, but continued nonetheless.
Thrown, made of the fallen things, wet, cold. I remember when I had the first one I ever made in my hands: packed, tightly, the first that stayed together. Other storms brought powder. Now it was wet, wet enough to throw.
Echo echo, small and white,
Quiet, dancing through the night,
Tumble up and touch my skin,
Burning, freezing, poison him.
It started with something small. The clip on her pen breaking under her fingers. Getting cut off in traffic. By lunch, when she saw her face in the mirror, she was too disgusted by herself to make eye contact. When she finally got off work, the whole world felt like it was turned against her, or that she has profoundly failed it somehow.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, as the saying goes. I feel like we overlook the more important question of, how did the snowball get there? Are we discussing an ice demon in the underworld? Can precipitation die? Does snow have a soul?
I just think we’re not thinking this thing through.
Should someone rescue the snowball?
I didn’t expect the situation to snowball so quickly, but once the fists started flying, I knew that sh** was going down. So I managed to hoist myself up on one of the tables in the cafeteria and just whistle, real loudly. Like, I don’t even know what came over me. Just this high-pitched, shrill siren’s call for attention that would’ve made my dog deaf even though he was ten miles away from my school. Everyone shut up. Everyone stopped hitting each other. One girl started whimpering like I’d hurt her ears. But they were all looking at me.
Poof. She giggled as it hit my face. The cold air had made her nose a bright pink, pulling the blood from my heart to warm her. She held the fire of the summer, even in the coldest of the winter.
Youthful folly. As a child is there anything more fun than a snowball thrown in good sport? Bringing a grin to your chin and making you feel so alive. The cold that cherries up your cheeks and pumps ice courage through your veins. You run, you leap you, hide from playtime ammunition, heart racing as you avoid a hit, hands steady as your aim ratings true. Then again, is there anything more malicious than a snowball thrown in hateful vengeance. The sting of cruelty you never realized you’d earned.
i am a snowball my name is snowy i am white and cold are you?
I feel sad because where I live there’s no winter with snow so I can’t make snowballs but I’m also happy because I had a chance to make when I was in Italy
I like eating snowballs. No, silly, not ice cold snow balls made of water. Rather the sweet confectionary kind covered in dreid coconut.
I have only held a snowball a few times in my life. The desert is my abode. But it does snow at times, even here. And we do get to ball up that white stuff. It’s fun to thing of it. Throwing a snowball at someone. Or building a snowman with all them balls. It’s all about having fun; and sometimes, that involves a snowball or two, or three, or four…
it was a hot summer day. not a cloud in the sky. we were sipping lemonade in unison by the delightful sights of wind rippling across the cute waters, but then it started to snow. It snowed barrels and buckets but all we did was embrace it. we didn’t ever question it. we threw ever snowball we made except Jeremy, the lone and rejected snowball that no one liked. it was the best of days. then i woke up. i think i ate too much salsa, it makes me dream to much.
The rock began to roll, picking up debris in it’s path, gaining momentum, faster, faster, faster, faster.
Below, the car pulled slowly to a stop. She looked over at him as he turned off the ignition. “Well. Will you look at that?”
She threw the snowball with energetic rigor, refreshed by the soft scarf rubbing against her chin and the burning cold in her hand. She ducked behind the mound of snow, searching for her prey. She found it in the wiry form of Tommy, who was using his long, thin legs to run at inhuman speeds. She cursed under her breath at the challenge of such a fast prey, but continued nonetheless.
Thrown, made of the fallen things, wet, cold. I remember when I had the first one I ever made in my hands: packed, tightly, the first that stayed together. Other storms brought powder. Now it was wet, wet enough to throw.