I don't write very often and I don't really consider myself very good at it but I'm quite happy with this bit so I thought I'd share it.
<insert uncreative title here>
I strode briskly across the grey paving (as quickly as I could while a layer of snow gathered on the soles of my shoes). I staggered along the whitened road with my face down and shrouded by the high collar of my grey coat. I felt the bitter cold prick at my fingers. After clenching then stretching them (a pointless attempt to warm them without lifting my hands from my sides), I vigorously rubbed them and stuffed them into my empty pockets. Every breath made a hazy wisp pass my lips. It’s that time of year again.
The soft crunchy-thud noise you get with every footstep imprinted on snow was the only sound to reach my ears. There was always something eerie about the way the heavy snow seemed to muffle the noise of the moving world like a murderer might gag their victim.
What a wonderful thought...
I walked silently, I had trudged this way so many times that it required no thought. I began listening for something to focus on while I plodded clumsily through the snow; there was nothing, no single sound to contemplate, simply silence. The silence was ghostly, uncanny to say the least, in a city like this. The rhythmic footsteps were no longer heard, not a noise escaped the houses, or maybe the snow has silenced that too. After many years, I still have yet to grow used to it. How can someone grow used to that feeling that the bustling city, the grinding gear, the ever-moving people, had come, to a halt.
I stood at a door. It was broken and tattered, the whole house looked forsaken. It was home. Red paint flaked away from the wooden door, the handle hung loosely. Although the lock was broken, no one ever came in. Perhaps they saw nothing worth taking.
I gingerly closed the frail door behind me. As I contemplated removing my coat, a persuasive draft seeped through the cracks of the windows and doors with a rather cold, swaying argument.
“All right then.” I muttered to the empty house.
Having nothing to do, I perched myself on my windowsill and gazed outwards, aimlessly at the monotonous cityscape, now painted white.
