Winter Gianna Birkeland ‘21 The winter blizzard had finally begun its dreary trek, trudging through the small towns as if they were fragile brambles. It scoured the countryside, ravaged family barns, and cornered entire congregations, to the point where a stale crust of sourdough bread could be bought for a family’s fortune. It was cold. Deadly cold. No tears could be shed in the shelter of the cottages, for as soon as a tear embarked down a sodden mother’s face, it crystalized into a painful dagger, frozen forever in pain. However, this blizzard was the first of the many tormentors swept into the storm. First, there came the hail, bullets from the sky that pierced wooden homes like a sewing needle through cloth. Puncture after puncture each home was littered with holes, as if some monstrous termite had made an early banquet out of the rustic houses. But that was just the beginning. The wolves were next, whining and snarling their way through the village. Never before had the terrified villagers seen such elusive creatures so brazenly trod through the man-made streets. The tundra had changed the beasts, their once timid countenance morphed into that of a berserk, crazed entity. They traveled in packs of forty, ranging from the lanky, skeleton-like teens, who had barely been alive in this world before they were thrown into the dog pit. The old and wizen hung behind, too frail to fight their way to the front of the mob. They could only hope for a shell of a bone, a morsel of a marrow, facing once again a harsh, brutal winter. These wolves were led by four alpha couples, monstrous creatures that stood a head taller than the average man. They worked
cunningly, waiting until clueless domestic cattle trudged alongside the fence’s post, hoping to find a trampled weed. Then, like a whirling tornado of claws and teeth, the wolves pounced. Soon, these wolves worked their way around the village’s perimeter, flooding through the town with the precision of an army battalion. It was not long until not a single cattle hair was left. Then came the pillagers. In the final stage of the winter season, these bachelor men, exiled from the village in a time of fruition, returned with a vengeance. They brandished weapons raging from all kinds of sophistication, from pitchforks, torches, and knives, to sharpened sticks, bone, and even crumbled brick. They came as a rampage, tormenting each village home until they could spare a musty bowl of watery soup, flavored with the yellowed grasses of fall, or the bony crust of bread. This continued non-stop for weeks on end, until finally the blizzard corralled the men back to the forest. It was then that the blizzard began to show mercy. It started with the lessened passage of the wind. By this time, the blizzard had become weak, its lifespan coming to a close with the threat of warmer times. After a long, stretched out period of time, the remaining villagers waited in agony for a strand of hope, until one day, a warm, neutral breeze freshened the homes of the town. Thus, a new cycle was reborn, and the village once again began to grow from the trodden bramble it had become.
62
