Peak mountain

by Michael

Snow. A handful of flakes on the surface of more snow. They are tipped up by the wind, blown onto their sides, more join them; they coalesce in a bluish-white icy ghast. Like albino dung beetles they gather each other into balls of snow…

It’s the next day, the day after the avalanche and the world is not still but normal. There are cars driving on cleared streets. Shopkeepers open for business. The shutters go up, revealing the doors and shopfronts. But it is quiet. Everyone carries the weight of the strangers who died under the snow.

The town is grey. It sits under the mountain, traffic lights reflecting off the wet tarmac and even more diffused off the snow piled at the sides. There is slush. It is not pretty. It is packed tight, hard. It is not for throwing, or building snowpeople – this snow is good only for death and damage and driving things into sleep. And yet the people go on with their lives, wrapped up against the cold they hardly feel any more and yet carry in their bones.

The vegetation is sparse, evergreen, everwhite, melting treacherously into ice. Sparkling like cyanide in champagne. Grey and black tyre marks blot the snow’s pure insanity.

Inside the shop, wooden panels, leather smells. Glassware and glasses made from the sand blasted out of the mountain quarries.

 

An unedited continual writing exercise in response to someone else’s selection of music.

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