WELCOME TO SIX SENTENCE STORIES

This week’s cue is DRY.

LINK ER UP!

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The Stream May Be Frozen, But Still Waters Run Deep

20171212_143912It’s been quite a while since I’ve blogged anything besides a Six Sentence Story, however the lovely Ms. Campbell over at “Finding Ninee” extended an invitation to do a stream-of-consciousness about winter. What better way to start writing again than to just let loose? So while this may result in no more than a bunch of sentences, at least it’s better than nothing.

Here goes nothing!

Every time I look at the side of our house and see the icicles hanging from it, I think of that story in which the murderer killed someone with an icicle. The murder weapon of course melted. While in the story that was a great twist, it’s been exposed now so it’s really quite a lousy way to murder someone; especially around here. Looking at the stalagmites hanging from this joint would be the first place I’d search for a murder weapon.

We have had sub-zero weather for a good part of this winter. While we’re used to really frigid weather, I can’t say we’re used to it being quite this chilly. Even my dog can’t take the cold around here this year. She’s had a bout of cold induced asthma, and painfully frozen feet on more than one occasion. Any actual walking that has occurred to date, has entailed the commitment to carry her for a distance.

Despite the icicles and my 13 pound K9 backpack, the winter remains one of my favorite times. How bad can a season be when something like Christmas is in it? How bad can a season be that covers the world in a peaceful blanket of silence, even when your head is screaming about appalling things that are happening in the world? Perfect murder weapon or not, icicles are just gorgeous creations. They aren’t inherently malicious. I once saw my kid turn an orange into a gun, and I’m certain he was no different than any other little kid his age playing Indiana Jones.

I have to run, however I have every plan to come back and complete writing this because it’s been fun to write again… even just this silly little bit. You forget how much you miss something until you actually take a moment to notice that it’s gone. I suspect winter is a lot like that.