The Winter of His Discontent

Can we talk about the weather? Isn’t that the common fallback topic, especially when you’re chatting with strangers. The weather: the small talk staple.

Here at The Reverie Journal, we want you to take the mundane, the ordinary and make it sublime. How can you talk about the weather in an interesting way? Is it a metaphor for your life? Does the wind speak to your very essence? Tell us all about it.

Here are some ideas to get you started. Use the words and the picture as inspiration!

Word Prompt: weather
Other choices:

blizzard
freeze
raw
fierce
threatening
blustery
uninhibited
flood

winter landscape

Good luck and have fun!

And have you considered submitting to our Write for Us segment? We’d love to feature your work here on The Reverie! Click here for more information…

Remember, all entries must be linked back to this post with a pingback or by commenting by Friday at midnight EST. Saturday is the vote and Sunday the winner will be featured. The winner is also entered for a place in the spring edition of our magazine.

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18 thoughts on “The Winter of His Discontent

  1. http://cache2.asset-cache.net/gc/85072162-couple-walk-along-snowy-path-in-fog-gettyimages.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=2&d=0M2sUkzhVmn5oILVLXuS1WQN17vjcyt2PiUrkKNaQ98%3D

    A Walk in the Snow

    As we stroll beneath
    Black empty branches
    Our path crosses another
    The other was us, in a warmer time
    No longer quite so sublime
    We have wandered, gone astray
    Closed out all of them,
    Self centered they say
    Now that winter
    Has engulfed us
    Wrapped our spirits tight
    Snow is aglinter
    Sparkly bright
    Unlike our mood
    Just a tad bleak
    So we tarry a bit
    Along the creek
    Before we make our stride
    I notice your rosy cheeks
    Snow squeaks as we take the bend
    The trail gliding
    Beneath our feet
    Until we arrive at our end
    Before us lies the icy sheet
    Stretched across the pond
    We hold our hands and our breath
    Then walk on to the ice
    One step follows another
    As we march toward death
    The first creak is eerie
    The second is a bother
    Next a loud crack
    Our hands grip tighter
    No turning back
    Two more steps
    Should be all we need
    Till we quench our thirst
    With cold, black water

    Liked by 2 people

    • Here in the highlands a Blackwater Creek runs through black soil brigalow country, it never freezes over, but that’s the tropics. I hear crossing ice of many watercourses gets a little risky, but I love how you open the poem and it travels, taking a reader somewhere and placing the sounds and atmosphere inside our heads, well explored.

      Like

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