In the silence of the night, their arrival slowly commences. Drifting past the window without a sound, taking their place with the others. As the dark sky transitions to dawn, they blend with the gray horizon, numbers continue to grow. Each has made an individual journey. All have come for one thing, to accentuate the silent vista and transform it into a new world. Dusted fields become stunning landscapes, orchestrated into fluffed ornaments on branches. The crisp, white, exquisite, filigreed shapes flounce hither and yon in the breeze. Blankets of winter flakes tease and test the days of fall.
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I like the flakes of winter. The serene gift lazily floated down to the ground. Not so much the horizontal motion of those same flakes when they come with a north wind and a -40 degree temperature.
The thoughts that bounced around the gray matter, and, for that matter, even made it to the sheets of my journal, were several different possible renditions when it came to the prompt: flakes.
Some of the notes I made became anecdotes of memories long since stored. Days spent with our aunt and uncle on their ranch. The nights always included a bedtime snack, and when I was asked what I wanted, the answer was cornflakes. I was perched on top of a kitchen stool - you know the old-fashioned ones that had a step that folded under the arborite, or sometimes padded seat. Beside me, our uncle filled two bowls with the requested snack, poured some milk over them - not too much, so they wouldn’t get soggy, and sometimes a little sugar, too. There we would sit, munching, and talking about my day riding Ginger. Before long, the bowls were empty and off to bed I went.
There is humour in this story, but not found until decades later - neither of us really liked cornflakes. I asked for them because he ate them with me, so he must like them. I suppose he obliged me because I was little. It’s still a good memory.
Taking the path back to the serene flakes of winter snow, as far back as I can remember, we spent hours wandering about with our tongues out trying to catch snowflakes. I still think it’s a fun thing to do on a not so blustery late fall, or winter day.
One of the best things is being able to capture a moment when one or two settle by themselves on a perch of some kind. Ogling their amazing shapes until another one drifts down on top of it. So you brush away the culprits, wait patiently, and hope to be gifted with another one of a kind sighting.
Yes, I do like the flakes of winter.
The thoughts that bounced around the gray matter, and, for that matter, even made it to the sheets of my journal, were several different possible renditions when it came to the prompt: flakes.
Some of the notes I made became anecdotes of memories long since stored. Days spent with our aunt and uncle on their ranch. The nights always included a bedtime snack, and when I was asked what I wanted, the answer was cornflakes. I was perched on top of a kitchen stool - you know the old-fashioned ones that had a step that folded under the arborite, or sometimes padded seat. Beside me, our uncle filled two bowls with the requested snack, poured some milk over them - not too much, so they wouldn’t get soggy, and sometimes a little sugar, too. There we would sit, munching, and talking about my day riding Ginger. Before long, the bowls were empty and off to bed I went.
There is humour in this story, but not found until decades later - neither of us really liked cornflakes. I asked for them because he ate them with me, so he must like them. I suppose he obliged me because I was little. It’s still a good memory.
Taking the path back to the serene flakes of winter snow, as far back as I can remember, we spent hours wandering about with our tongues out trying to catch snowflakes. I still think it’s a fun thing to do on a not so blustery late fall, or winter day.
One of the best things is being able to capture a moment when one or two settle by themselves on a perch of some kind. Ogling their amazing shapes until another one drifts down on top of it. So you brush away the culprits, wait patiently, and hope to be gifted with another one of a kind sighting.
Yes, I do like the flakes of winter.
| Ann Edall-Robson Author, Photographer, Lover of Life "Capturing moments others may never get to experience.” |
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October 31, 2023, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story using the word or idea, flakes. What or who is a flake? Is there tension or phenomenon that is creating flakes? Can flakes be massive or minute? Go to your flakiest memories for living images to play with. Go where the prompt leads!
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