Writing Prompts

NEW FEATURE!! Writing Challenges!! This one is called Writer’s Prompt.

The rules are simple for this one:

  1. Choose a season (Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer)
  2. Write from the point of view of that season.
  3. Be as descriptive as you can.
  4. Email Us
  5. The top 3 get a featured spot on our blog!




The snow drives fast and hard as I watch it circle around me in torrents driven by my breath. The ground is covered in snowflakes each different from the other. Unique in their own individuality and yet they mesh together to form a solid structure. Weak on their own and strong united.

The glitter of the snow that floats off my breath is blinding as it drives forward, covering everything in its path with an absolute cold that pushes the instinct of hibernation for all things plant and animal. Icy fingers touch upon the branches of trees born naked and bare from the fall winds. The last few leaves shook away by the ice that forms to replace them.

The huffing of cold people as they pull themselves closer in their synthetic skins, trying to stay warm in the winds of a winter storm come to my ears in snippets with the winds of the storm. I watch as they bustle past, jostling in the driving snow for their destinations, for the warmth they so desperately seek out. The wind howls again through the naked forests around the little town, sounding off to remind the people that winter is here and here to stay whether they like it or not.

Cars zip by with the backsplash of slush and sand. Sending up rivulets of dirty snow onto the sidewalks and bearing a new layer of ice on them. A plow goes by with a scraping sound and the mechanical undertones of the diesel engine. I watch as the roves of the houses bow slightly with their weight of snow and the wind howls across the eves bemoaning its protest to the slew of people without being truly heard by them.

The cold of the winter wind drives back a mother and her baby and she steals herself against it, more determined to move forward against it. Her destination to me is unknown, only what I see as my breath pushes the snow faster and harder against the driving winds is what I know now. Sometimes, I wonder where they are going and where they are coming from. Always so drawn in and huddled against the winter cold. No one stops to watch the driving snow, only curses it and mushes forward to get away from it.

Winter is hated, winter is deplored. It’s cold, misunderstood and most would rather forget it when it is done and said. Spring is revered because she ends the cold grasp of Winter’s touch on the world around everyone and Summer praised for his warmth. Fall is less loved but better than Winter, not as cold but the announcer of Winter’s arrival. I am Winter with my windy breath pushing my white product around them and freezing the world into slumber to the time of renewal. I am rebirth in waiting.

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