COLD SNAP

Rachel Richey Writing Prompt Contest Winners

Creative Writing Prompt Contest Winner!

Winter is almost over! The days are getting longer and brighter, and soon, we will leave all the snow and frost behind us. But before we say our goodbyes to the season, let’s take a look at the winners of our last contest. We had asked writers to image what it would be like to experience snow for the very first time, and we weren’t disappointed! We choose two wonderfully descriptive entries to feature this week. Congrats are in order for Edith Rey’s wonderful poem and Joan Leotta’s lovely piece of prose. We want to thanks everyone who entered! Keep on writing!

 


Discovering Winter
By Joan Leotta

They brought me from my home, a place they call “eeeee kway tor,” to see their land, to live among them. They tempted me with tales of lush green and new experiences. Instead, I found yellowed grasses, bare trees stretching up to gray skies and air that shook my bones with what they said was “cold.” It will pass they said.

Day after day I wrapped myself in blankets inside their huts and out. They called me out to see the white rain that tingled on my tongue and made my hands and toes turn blue and instead of laying softly in droplets on leaves and ground, glittering like diamonds in the sun, this white rain piles bit on bit and lays in wait to make me slip and slide if I venture out into the gray.

These things will pass they tell me and soon the green will come. I am not sure. But I say, none of what I have told you so far is the worst. The part of this thing that they call winter, the part that most saddens my soul is that I wake in darkness, then a few hours of gray-ish light , and before my lids are heavy with sleep again, deep black dark smears over the gray. They light fires in the house, foul things with smoke and cinders that fly about when the wind outside howls. It is this long standing darkness that most offends my soul. My only hope is that indeed, the sun will come and this thing called winter will come to an end.

 

Joan Leotta has been playing with words on page and stage since childhood in Pittsburgh. She is a writer and story performer. Her poetry and essays appear or are forthcoming in Gnarled Oak, the A-3 Review, Hobart Literary Review, Silver Birch, Postcard Poems and Prose among others. Her first poetry chapbook, Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, was just released by Finishing Line Press. She also has written a series of novels, Legacy of Honor and a set of four picture books, Rosa’s Shell is the latest. A group of her short stories, Simply a Smile ,is available in paper and on Kindle. You can find more about her work on her blog at www.joanleotta.wordpress.com, follow her on twitter @beachwriter12, or on Facebook at Joan Leotta, Author and Story Performer.


Cold Snap
By Edith Rey

Glass butterfly,
have you lost your way?
Here in the silver, bitter winds?
The peppermint sting of the face,
paled the skin, but not the heart?
It beats.
It beats a rhythm,
a flutter of wings.
But not that of a butterfly,
colored with the flowers of spring.
Not that of a butterfly,
dipped in the gold of the sun.
Not that of a butterfly,
baked brown with cinnamon leaves.
Glass butterfly,
where are you from?
From the sky, like the rest?
Glass butterfly,
dance with me, with others of your kind.
A warmth you can never feel anywhere else.
Lovely bliss never created by words,
a kindness that can’t be seen,
a feeling of that of purity.
I cry with laughter.
I cry with joy.
A flower that blossoms in the darkness of all.
Fear the dark no longer.
The light shines on their wings.
They will guide my way,
beyond the clouds and into space.
Glass butterfly,
are you stars from the heavens?
Here to grant my wish of peace?
If only for a moment,
that’s more than enough.
Freedom of worries
the fears of the past and future.
It is the here and now.
Glass butterfly,
flutter in the silver winds.
A cold tear falls from my cheek.
A chrysalis of my grace.
May you emerge,
Glass butterfly.
And may the silver winds carry you.
My heart beats a rhythm,
a flutter of wings.
My butterfly beats her wings.
Goodbye my snowflake….