Tag: winter

Winter Is My Favorite Season (Except When It Tries to Kill Me)

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Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite season of year? Why?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

If I had to pick a favorite season, it’s winter. Yeah, I said it. The one that makes most people curl up under three blankets, clutching cocoa like it’s a life preserver. There’s just something about winter. It feels alive.

The air turns sharp. The world quiets down like it’s holding its breath. That chill in your bones? That’s winter tapping you on the shoulder, reminding you you’re still kicking. That crisp air that stings your lungs when you step outside? It’s like nature slapping you awake and yelling, “Rise and shine, you dramatic little mammal!”

I love that. I live for that. It’s refreshing. It’s honest. Unlike summer, which pretends it’s all fun and games until you’re sweat-glued to your car seat and melting into your flip-flops.

And let’s not forget the glory days: building snow forts like it was serious architecture. I was useless at building the actual fort—mine always looked like a collapsed igloo—but when it came to the snowball fight? Lethal. I had sniper aim with a fistful of packed powder. Honestly, I probably peaked as a ten-year-old winter soldier. Gloves, mittens on strings, and a tube of chapstick were standard-issue gear. That was the uniform. That was the life.

But—and this is key—there’s a line. And that line is subzero.

Once the temperature starts playing limbo with zero degrees, all bets are off. I’m not stepping outside. Not for errands. Not for “fresh air.” Not even for a dog walk, and I don’t even have a dog. At subzero, winter stops being poetic and starts being personal.

That’s not weather. That’s assault.

I remember one winter—it hit 30 below. I assumed the world would just… stop. Nature says nope, we say nope, we all go home, right? I call my boss, thinking surely we’re shut down. Nope. Open for business.

So we’re out there before sunrise, trying to coax frozen equipment back to life while it feels like your skin is cracking open. Meanwhile, the operator sits in the cab in the warmth and has the nerve to rush us. I swear, there would’ve been blood spilled if it wasn’t too damn cold to swing a wrench. We still talk about that day. Like it’s legend. Like winter war stories.

So yes—give me winter. The snow, the chill, the breath that turns visible like I’m exhaling secrets into the world. It’s magical.

Just don’t give me the “I can feel my soul shivering inside my spleen” version of winter. That one can go directly to Hell—ironically, a warmer place.

Wake me up when it’s hoodie weather again.

Winter French Kissed Me and It Was Not Okay

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How do you feel about cold weather?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

—a survivor’s guide to atmospheric betrayal

How do I feel about cold weather?
First of all, what a ridiculous question. Clearly asked by someone who’s never had to warm their jeans in front of the oven before putting them on. Someone who thinks “cold” means putting on a hoodie for their latte run, with almond milk, as if that’s the real crisis.

Let’s get this straight: cold weather is not an aesthetic. It’s not “cozy.” It’s not “romantic.” It is a full-blown seasonal assault. It’s waking up and negotiating with your thermostat like you’re defusing a bomb. It’s stepping outside and getting physically bullied by the air. It slaps your face, steals your breath, and laughs as your will to live slips on black ice.

Have you ever felt the cold in your teeth? Not because you’re chewing ice—just because you exist? The cold doesn’t nudge you; it invades. Your fingers become meat popsicles. Your nose a leaky faucet. Your spine? An icicle with regrets.

And yes, someone will always chirp, “But snow is so magical!”

Sure. So is glitter—until it’s in your carpet, your soul, and your coffee. Snow is only magical until you’re scraping your windshield with a frozen pizza box because your scraper snapped in half like your sanity.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t always feel this way.

There was a time when winter meant war, and we were ready for it.

We were glued to the radio each morning, listening for school closures like it was the stock market. We lived for the moment they’d say our school’s name. Nothing else mattered. Snow day? Victory. Snow day? Absolute chaos.

And when we got the call—we deployed.
Our mothers didn’t mess around with stylish gear. None of that fitted Columbia-brand nonsense grandkids wear today. No, we were wrapped in layers so thick we couldn’t bend at the elbows. Giant snowsuits in violent colors, scarves wrapped until we couldn’t breathe, hats that made us look like sentient laundry piles.

We didn’t look cool. We looked insulated. And we were proud of it. Because we had work to do. Trash can lids became sleds. Snow ramps got built with zero structural integrity. There were snow forts to construct, munitions to stockpile, and alliances to betray. If you didn’t come back soaked, bruised, and slightly frostbitten—you didn’t commit.

And the cold? It didn’t touch us.
We stayed outside for hours. No complaints. No thermals. Just soaked socks and adrenaline. We siphoned warmth directly from the sun—or maybe from the bodies of our enemies in those brutal snowball battles. We made snow angels like we were summoning ice demons. We didn’t feel pain. We felt alive.

But somewhere along the line, that magic froze over.

You start to see snow not as a playground, but as debt—a cruel joke you’ll be shoveling off your car at 6 a.m. with a spoon because your scraper snapped (again). The world no longer stops for snow. It just gets harder.

And then something inside you changes. You stop complaining. You stop reacting. You just nod when the forecast says “ice pellets” like some frostbitten monk who’s accepted their fate. You become that person who shovels in a T-shirt—not because it’s brave, but because your soul gave up years ago.

So how do I feel about cold weather?

Like a war veteran feels about the war: I’ve been through it, I have the scars, and if you say “but snow is magical!” one more time, I will personally make you lick a metal pole in January.

Any more questions?

Snow Days

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Daily writing prompt
What was your favorite subject in school?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I’m sure the first time I answered this question, I probably attempted to say something clever or mildly entertaining. Honestly, I can’t even remember. The school was fine, and I liked the subject well enough. As far as my favorite subject, it probably has something to do with english or history.

The thing I remember most, perhaps for a time the only thing that mattered, were snow days. Winters were winters back then, snow covered every surface. A cold, wet beauty for all to wonder. Our parents dressed us in snowsuits to keep warm. They weren’t worried about fashion or any of that garbage. Our gloves were tied to a string which fed through the arms of our snowsuits. They did this so we wouldn’t lose our gloves or mittens. Our snowsuits were are our armor and we were knights ready for battle.

We were architects, engineers, athletes, and anything we wanted to be. We would spend all day waiting by the radio announcement declaring school was closed. Once we had it, we’d bolt outside and begin building forts and stockpiling snowballs. Within hours, we had everything ready for the battle. We knew only had one day. There were rarely two snow days in a row. The battle would ensue. For the next few hours we battled until our tiny bodies gave out.

We heard our mother’s calling us back inside before we got frostbite or catch your death. They would unthaw us with hot cocoa. I remember so days we got fancy and added marshmellows. Yes, I said add them we didn’t have fancy premade packets. Our mothers made the hot cocoa on the stive and we waited patiencly for each cup. Our wet snowsuits would lay on the back of the chairs. Small puddles forming on the floor. Our boots stuffed with newspaper, because the newspaper absorbs the water out of our boots.