Young Writers Society

The sun and rain fought for dominance as they participated in a never ending challenge of who had the greater power over the weather for that week.

The sky expresses displeasure at the human festivities, but can't quite bring itself to rain on their parade.

the cold clings to my skin like an octopus would its prey.

Too cold!

The clouds are dry toast being broken apart, but whiter and fluffier and breaking apart along curved lines.

The stars are pinpricks of light floating in the black void of space, like puny humans drowning in the vast embrace of the sea. I wonder, are they sending out a distress call?

It is bitterly cold, and the wind is howling with a frenzied rage - "where has the sun gone?" she shrieks at me, "why did no one tell me the sun was leaving again?" - this is no time for half-hearted niceties about horizons and daybreaks, she is in no mood for a weather report of optimism. So right now we can only nod along as she cries and shuffle quickly indoors, we can only sigh sympathetically and stomp as we try to open the door to retreat again inside. Stay warm. I say to every drive-through attendant, and cash-register employee. Like the mere wish, might mean their hands will unthaw, and the sun will return. Like we could change the weather with wishes. And I know better than this too. Still, if we are to keep some respectability, we have to note that it is cold, and wish each other warmth. The only other choice it seems, is to rage along with the wind, to let the cold overwhelm us, and scream.

i step my booted foot outside
the crunch
of snow and hail
makes me cringe
i ponder once more,
is this chill worth remembering?
i look up at the sky
it is bleak,
and grey,
and lonely.
i guess i shall stay inside
just like you did
when you hurt me

Snowflakes pirouette in the icy embrace of howling winds, a wintry ballet of nature's frozen breath.

Sky gray, hinted blue
powder, sugar layered-dust
a tiny coat, cold

The open-air stadium of the world now has a white ceiling.

Today the fog hangs across the sky in a palpable warning that rain will be coming. It is heavy, like those silences uncomfortably weighing down our conversations - when neither one of us is willing to surrender our weapons, or concede to break the silence with false compassion. I don't expect to see the sun, so I don't look for him. And I know all this time and space between here and now, you and me, hill and horizon, will not fold, or sever. I fully expect these miles to stretch; and this muddled sea of cloud to become an ocean - stretched far and wide and infinitely unseeable, until the shore is gone, and all hope of light is hidden somewhere far ahead.

Folds of cotton gauze turned grey by dust - breaking off onto a blue placemat.

the sun breaks through
a canopy of water
that always seems to obscure

A claw-mark of blue tears through the dreary backdrop of the field's sky, shining desperate rays of light down into dewy grass