Winter writing competition

Come and get it” shouted Ted. He banged the plates together and watched as the other dads and their kids came out of their tents.

He had been a bit reluctant to go on the dads and kids skiing weekend as he never seemed to fit in with the other dads.

He was always the butt of jokes at school events, just because he was an accountant and not into sports and adventure, all the other dads went hiking and canoeing, whilst he championed his son at the chess club, but dare he say it, things had gone pretty well so far he may not be the best skier but he had held his own and he felt the others were starting to accept him.
“What’s in the pot” said Rory…. Rory had been one of teds worse critics and even he had thawed towards him,

“Rabbit hot pot” said Ted..the rest of the dads and kids had gathered around they had all been a bit concerned when Ted had offered to be the chef for the trip but he had produced some amazing meals, there seemed to be a unique flavour to all his cooking and they could not get enough.

Ted served up the food and everyone tucked in, grunts of praise and thanks came from every corner of the camp, Ted beamed with pride.

“Dad “said his son john. “Yes son”. …”Where did you find all these recipes they are wonderful”.

Ted got out a well leafed book and showed it to his son, “I got this at a boot sale its called cooking in a winter wonderland , the secret is using fallen snow for your water that’s what gives it the flavour”.

His son read through the book…”Err dad”…said John handing him the book ..”what does that say..the last line”!

Ted looked at the book..he read…”finally go out into the fields and collect some snow in a bucket this will melt over the fire and add it to your pot, to make sure of the best taste possible only use…Ted turned the page….yellow snow which is usually quite close to the camp”….John snatched the book from him and forced apart the stuck page…he looked and sighed…”read it again dad!!!”….” to make sure of the best taste possible only use”…...Ted turned the page …the unstuck page 'Crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet' as this will be the purest there is….

Ted read through to the end and read ..and one last thing, whatever you do never ever collect…Ted turned the Page… yellow snow which is usually quite close to the camp, ….Ted looked up and gulped, what was he going to do….his son turned to him and said “Tell you what dad how about making this OUR LITTLE SECRET!!!

"Listen to me you little upstart, I am not having some snot nosed little rookie tell me where I can and can't work!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way Sir but it's in the constitution, the simple fact is more people believe in me than you these days, which gives me seniority..."

Boreas glared at the teenager sat behind his pine-effect desk with his ultra thin laptop and wanted to give him a clout around the head he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

His mind wandered to the good old days before he had to moonlight as a packer for Ben & Jerry's, when his powers were strong and this little whippersnapper would have been nothing but a snowman by the time he'd finished with him... and, he told himself, he'd have found the biggest possible carrot and shoved it right up....

"Are you listening to me?!"

"What?" Boreas snapped out of his memories. "What did you say?"

"I said, no more unauthorised trips," replied the arrogant teen deity from his executive computer chair with faux leather finish. "Snow in February in ENGLAND?! That's well outside your operational boundaries and created friction."

"Do you know who I am you little shit? I'm Boreas, I'm the God of Winter and I was giving people cold weather before you were a tent in your daddy's jockstrap..."

"...and that was a long time ago Old Man, when things were disorganised chaos! You dropped 4 inches of snow in some places but without any requisition forms, clearance, cloud cover control guidance..."

"Four inches? You think I need paperwork for that? Back in my day you saw a human you wanted to give a good 12 inches to and you just went in and..."

"...and created havoc, it's that kind of attitude that's got us into a mess already, have you seen Zeus' monthly bill for child support?"

"So if I want to give people a flurry of unique handmade flakes, the sight of snow on a rose, the irreplaceable feeling of crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet..."

"You fill out a F5402 in triplicate and hand it in 14 weeks before the planned weather, confirming that it is allowable under conditions 1 through 924."

"But..."

"No buts, this is how it's happening, good day."

Boreas thought about starting a row but gave up, standing up and storming out of the room, ignoring the spotty faced teen deity in his White Sabbath Tshirt.

He slammed the door and leant against the wall opposite it, glaring at the golden lettering.

Doleus - God of Global Warming.

Bloody mortals... one day they'd come up with something useful...

March 16, 2009

"Crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet."

"No! Leaves."

"No chance. That first sparkler you ever held as a child, fizzing and biting while the sulphur ruins the air."

"I like the crunch of an apple. You can hear it crack."

"I’m sure you do. But the crack and collapse of a honeycomb is better, surely?"

"Bees. They make honey. And they sound lazy and summerish."

"But so do ice-cream vans. And lawn mowers. And laughter late at night."

"Seems like months since I smelt freshly-mown grass. I can smell it now. It actually smells green."

"Ever smelt a tree? They’re faintly woody, of course, but musty, too."

"Musty is old houses. Forgotten wardrobes. Little old sheds with bizarre drawers people haven’t looked at for years."

"No – musty is dry, and faint, but real, the smell of the badly washed. The poor."

"Poor people don’t smell. Smelly people smell. Poor people smell the same as the rich in the raw. Pink, or brown, bright, and clean. Flesh smell. A nothing smell. But a smell itself."

"But the rich smell of finery. Perfumes and scents. And they sound just like they smell. Haughty and high."

"Rubbish! They sound the way we do. But we hear them differently. We’re envious, and we’re sad, and we want to hear vanity."

"Can you hear vanity? Surely not?"

"You can hear vanity, like hatred, like scorn, and like love. Just like you smell a colour like green grass."

"A hot day then?"

"Yellow, with burnt orange."

"The sea?"

"Ocean blue. With the smell of the shore."

"Town?"

"A mix of black and browns and whites and greens, and more. With fumes, and vegetable stalls, and the smell of a baker, with a noise all round you, from nowhere at all."

"What’s the colour of butter?"

"Mild, lazy yellow, buttercups, rape fields; and it smells of nothing but cold and dairy."

"If crisp white snow crunches, what about a loaded cream cracker?"

"Different. Teeth sinking into the thud of hard cheese, exploding through a small tomato, nestling into a smear of butter, smashing the cracker itself. I can hear it as much as taste it without doing it."

"Swimming pools?"

"Blue, and chlorine, and shrieking, and rapid echoes, and rubber bands on your wrist that hurt to pull off, and cheap shampoo and rubbish chips, in snappable trays and with wooden forks."

"Breaking metal. Wrenching and creaking and screaming and dying. Sullenly grey, and profoundly dangerous."

"Padding over new carpets – you almost hear it, you always feel it."

"Or thunking shut a window."

"Or drenching the plants with the kids' paddling pool water."

"We could do this all night."

They won’t be, though.

They’ll go home, rightly, and forget what they have, not because they’re bad people, but simply because they can.

We can no more guarantee the smell of bacon than we can the noise of a telephone call.

It’s there to enjoy, very much to savour, everything to appreciate. And everything to lose.