In an attempt to take my mind off Lolita (Oh, Lolita! I feel sorry for you, poor corrupt child, but more on that in another post) I went over to terribleminds and found a new flash fiction challenge – the random title. Now I bent the rules a little and took my pick of the words given and came up with this title. Maybe it’s because December is here, and it’s hot, and today I saw a plastic Christmas tree, and it made me remember snowflakes. And maybe it’s because I do miss winter just a little bit, not too much, and in writing this I conjured up for a moment the feeling of holding a tiny snowflake in my hand.
In the great space that was the quiet night, the clouds gathered. They rumbled and grumbled and shook their great bulk. Then it was decided.
As with every year, this was not easy, the violent and suave separation, the letting go of the great whiteness only to be swept with the others, buried, dead, forgotten. What was it that made them fall year after year? And still, it must be done. The clouds were full and soon they would let their children fall and watch them float away from their great bulk and they would be burdened with sadness while their bellies became lighter and lighter, until they could float again, instead of being anchored towards the earth, forced to relinquish their treasure, their sweet, soft darlings who would float into the void below.
At the appointed time they stood dispersed across the great sunless sky and began to shake. The snowflakes fell with a great silent roar, leaving deep white wounds in the great clouds. And they continued their journey, swirled around by the melancholy breeze, their life but a glimpse, a whisper of white flurries, going to their doom. And one of them would be caught by tiny hands and marveled at and then squeezed, bleeding through tiny fingers that would remember its iciness for one brief second.