Snowfall

“It’s snowing outside.”

He didn’t glance up from his book, but replied, “Indeed. It most certainly is.”

A log in the fireplace popped and sent sparks dancing hither, thither, a mad dance before the log settled in and resumed doing nothing much at all.

“Should we do something about it?”

“Of course, of course,” he replied, still keeping his eyes on some large, dusty tome he’d pulled from the shelves as the day grew to gloaming, then to night.

There were a number of those types of books on the shelves and he seemed to be reading from one or the other at any given time, but never from the same one two days running. She reminded herself to check the spine to see which one it was tonight after he put it back on the shelf. It seemed like it might be the Kafka, it came from that section after all, but she couldn’t be certain until she checked. His organization was, how should she put it… lacking. And she didn’t dare ask. Never that.

“Well?” she asked.

For the first time all evening, his eyes left the book.

“Well, what?”

“What should we do about it snowing outside?”

He scratched his chin in thought. He did that when he was thinking about something that needed a quick answer. His eyes lit up and then returned to the book she thought must be Kafka.

“Let is snow until it’s done snowing,” he said, voice drifting way like æther flowing to the walls and the stars beyond, like the very same as snowflakes flitting outside the leaded windows of the room. “Then, we shovel.”

That seemed reasonable to her, though it would be him, not we, and she returned to the cross-stitch she’d laid in her lap. Even should she offer to help, he’d refuse, for she would only stand in the way of his larking about in the dreams between his ears as he moved the snow around.

The wind rattled the windows as they both drifted the evening away.


Explanation

This piece is stream of consciousness writing. I didn’t intend for it to end up in any place in particular (or even start anywhere in particular). I’ve been a bit obsessive about mystical, magic and monsters in my writing lately and I’m trying to break away from that obsessiveness and write something a little less genre-driven.

I’ve not made it much of a secret that I am a great admirer of Camus, Sartre, Kafka and Salinger (to name a few), especially the latter two. While I don’t have any illusions of my skill compared to some of my literary heroes, I do tend to be enthralled by the more quirky and vignette-like pieces these authors have written. Common-day events with just a bit of weird, but no real story as most people would see them. Polaroids snapshots just slightly out of focus (or, in my case, very out of focus back in the day).

I just as easily could have written about two people consulting an Ouija board, only the conversation would be different and spiritual intervention very suspect so that any magic would be hokey and contrived (hey, and idea for tomorrow…), but I imagined a conversation in a parlor or a living room instead this time. And this is what came out.

And yes, it is snowing outside. Now you know my prompt.


Originally posted on sceadugenga.com

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