Sweater Weather
Competition 2018
We had a contest for a story based on the winter season. These were the entries.
Competition Winner: "Strangers in the Snow"
by Aanya Oswal-Monteiro
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Her breath fogs the glass as she peers out the window, curling her toes as a chilly wind rushes through the house, and little snowflakes dance and twirl,
“Honey, we’re out of milk. Mind running out to get some?”
She looks back, brown eyes wide. “I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of a storm, Aunty.”
An woman strolls to stand next to her, blonde hair whitening at the roots and little glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “It seems alright for now. If you leave soon, you should be able to beat it.”
“You think?” She hops off the sofa and pulls on a coat. As she leaves the door, she grabs the keys and calls back, “I shouldn’t be too long!”
In the same snowfall, a short while away, a blue truck sputters down the road. The rust and creaks are clear indications that it had seen better days, much as the driver, shivering behind the wheel.
He checks back, every now and then, at a brown leather satchel, bumping up and down on the icy terrain.
He pushes his brown hair out of his eyes, reminding himself for the millionth time to get a decent haircut.
On the winding road, the van slows to a stop. Pulling his hat over his ears, he climbs out to check the engine. Cold snow fills his shoes as he steps out, and he swears colorfully,, at the evidently frozen engine.
Leaning on the side of his van, he breathes into his hands in an attempt to warm then.
In the distance, a faint light pulses, a yellow beam through the snow and fog.
Cursing his luck, he snatches his satchel and slowly trundles towards it, and as the snow covers his footprints, there’s nothing left but a lone blue van.
She glances outside her car window, where the wipers desperately move back and forth but to no avail.
There’s no way I’m getting to that store in time. Indeed, the storm has grown so much that it’s nearly impossible to see anything.
Up ahead she glimpses a red brick building, flashing neon sign spelling out “Breakfast n Go.” Grinning, she pulled up into the parking lot, where few cars lay dormant, and hurries through the doors.
The diner is warm, with red booths and tiled floors. Behind the counter, there is a rather plump, middle aged man, who grins, “Hello, young lady. What can I get for ya?”
“A coffee, please. No milk.”
“Of course, now find somewhere to sit and please, brush the snow out of your hair.”
He reaches just when he thinks he’ll freeze to death, and lets the warm air wash over him, body tingling. Shaking snow from his collar, he makes his way to a table, sets down his satchel, and leans back in the wooden chair.
“Sir? You look like you need a hot chocolate.”
He opens one eye and cocks an eyebrow at the man. “That sounds wonderful. I have…” he rummages through his pockets, “... $1.54.”
“Don’t worry, this one’s on the house. Many people have been stranded in this storm.”
As he looks around, he notices a girl sitting alone in a booth next to him. Her light hair frames her face, with a button nose and dark almond eyes. She sits uncertainty - shy, but not afraid.
“Quite a storm, eh?”
She she turns to the speaker. He can’t be much older than her, but those blue eyes possess a wisdom far beyond his years.
“Yes, indeed,” she says, chuckling nervously.
Suddenly, with neither warning nor invitation, he surges up, tattered bag in one hand, and scoots into the seat across from hers.
“How’d you wind up here?”
“Got stuck in the storm. Didn’t want to keep pushing the car further.”
He lets out a chuckle and she allows herself the ghost of a smile. “You’re right with that one. God alone knows where my car’s at by now. Engine froze over.”
“So, you…” she breaks off and gestures to the bag.
“Ah, yes. I’m a writer… or, at least, a struggling one. The bag’s where I keep all the juicy ideas. Thought leaving my home would be the beginning of a brilliant career…”
“And how’s that going so far?”
He shrugs and waves his hands around. “This is all I got to show for it. So, what’s your story?”
She giggles. “Me? I don’t have one.”
“Oh c’mon. Everyone has a story.”
She sighs. “I never really knew my parents, they both passed away when I was young.”
“Oh, I’m sorry - “
“No, it’s alright. I don’t even remember them. I live with my aunt, and although she’s an absolutely delightful woman, things can get a bit… boring.” She blushes. “See? Nothing interesting.”
He looks at her, this oddly confident messy-haired girl, with unfiltered wonder. “Quite the contrary, stories like that are hard to find. Picture this: Orphaned girl, longing for adventure…”
She laughs, spewing a mouthful of coffee. He looks at her, amused.
“That sounds like every other story I’ve heard.”
He joins her in laughing. “Perhaps that’s true. But it’s not about the story. It’s about how the story’s told.”
“Well, then I must confess. I’ve always wanted to be a singer.”
“A singer! Wow. Let’s hear something.”
“Nah…”
“Come on! Just a little.”
“Alright. Just a little.”
As she opens her mouth to sing, his eyes go wide. She starts soft - nothing more than an angel murmuring - then crescendos, closing her eyes and pouring her heart out. People gather, and for one night, strangers come together to experience that pure joy.
As the snowfall slows and the sun begins to peek over the hills, two cars drive in different directions.
She is going home to declare that a singer, a singer was what she wants to be. He is driving away into the sunrise, with a wide eyed girl in his mind.
Dreams are suddenly not as far as they seem.
Competition Runner Up: "The Boy and The Reaper"
by Praewprach Lerthirunvibul
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Hester and Robert Leslington never knew that they would die so soon in their young lives until they crashed a car into a guardrail and flew out of their seats. The Grim Reaper had come, with the boredom of having taken already way too many souls in one day and as he dragged his scythe blade behind him he thought of the sheer amount of deaths that he had witnessed that day. There was the woman who drowned in the river, the man who lit his tie on fire as he bent over the kitchen stove, the children who had tripped into the road while chasing a beach ball and many more deaths he had not cared enough about to recount.
Quite frankly, he thought, as he stood over the two still bodies, withered skeletal hand recording the names and time of death as their souls pleaded for their lives, it had started to be a very tedious job. He banished the both of them with his scythe, barely listening as they talked about their children, their jobs, their lives. He had matters to attend to. As he walked briskly along the salted pavements cleared of snow, frozen leaves whistling as he floated past he thought of the notebook in the pocket of his robes. It’d grown to the size of a phonebook now and his spectral spine hurt more than ever. He’d have to ask for a new one soon, he was getting through them so quickly.
The Reaper remembered a time when he had used to be so scared, so humane of recording a name down in his book. He had relentlessly consoled every lost soul, trembling as he banished them with his scythe. Now the joy of living was lost on him. Souls who’d he reaped often had been heard in the afterlife whispering about how inconsiderate he was. How detached he was from his job. He’d gotten two warnings already from the Head Reaper about how he was leaving the souls with a lingering distaste of all the reapers. He should’ve been the one to make them feel at peace with leaving their lives but instead he’d just created contempt and anger among the ghosts. So what? He shook his head furiously, a grim smile on his face. He didn’t care less about who died or who didn't. Life wasn’t valuable and it was better that they were no longer able to experience it. He was a kind guy, to be able to escort them to a better place. He nodded at himself as he kicked apart some snow from the front steps of a lonesome manor, perched near the edge of a very steep cliff.
The boy’s soul was sitting silently next to his own body. Left alone to his own devices, the stupid boy had electrocuted himself. The Reaper raised an eyebrow at the staring boy as he jotted down the name and date in his book. Sliding his scythe out of the holder he got ready to make the crude swipe, thereby ending the boy’s life before the boy stopped him with an innocent question.
“Are you the Reaper?” The boy’s voice was sweet and high pitched, so young that he had not even hit puberty yet.
“Yes.” The Reaper wasn’t sure why he had answered the question. His scythe was still paused in mid air, sharply cutting the tenseness around him.
“Are you here to bring me to the afterlife?” The boy’s eyes were wide open in curiosity and he stared at the Reaper as if he was anything but Death’s equivalent.
“Yes.”
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“You seem very sleepy. Are you sure you won’t drop me on the way?” The boy shifted on the floor, pajamas rubbing against the weathered wood.
“I’m not flying there, you idiot.” The Reaper said scathingly.
The boy bursts into giggles. The Reaper sighed, lifting his scythe again. He had become soft.
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“Not yet, not yet!” The boy raised his voice slightly and against his will, Reaper found that he had slotted the scythe back into its holder.
“What is it?” The Reaper dropped onto an armchair situated next to the boy and as his pale, peeling feet brushed the boy’s arm he drew back quickly. He didn’t need to be reminded of the human side that used to be a part of him.
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“I thought you would be nicer, you know? You’re the last person I’ll see before I die after all” The boy had gotten up now, spectral image dangling over the floor as he examined his own corpse. He wrinkled his nose. What was he to judge the one that would take his life?
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“Who cares about being nice?”
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“You’re taking someone’s soul! They just died!” The boy exclaimed. The Reaper found it funny how cartoonish the boy’s voice was. Innocence did that to you, he mused. His own voice was finely aged, like a smooth, dark wine. He got up, seemingly tired of the constant chatter.
“You can’t just act like their life never had any value!” The boy followed him as he picked up his book and made his way to the door, glancing at the huge clock hanging over the doorway of the House. The boy had become seemingly knowledgeable in the time after his death.
As they stepped out of the door The Reaper felt cold wind brush his pale cheeks. Grey clouds grouped overhead, clumping together to form a massive dust bunny. He smiled at his thoughts before he continued to float to his destination.
“Were you ever human?” This question stopped the Reaper in his tracks.
“You were, weren't you?” The boy floated alongside him, face filled with wonder and bewilderment.
“Yes.” The word shot out of the Reaper’s mouth so quickly he had no chance to stop it. He had after all, once been a man, a man who gave almost every single penny to charity and every single ounce of his life to being kind. He had been a good man. A good man who decided it was a good idea to jump in front of a train. He thought that even though he just kept on doing good, nothing ever came out of it.
“So you understand why I don’t want to die?” They were crossing a playground now, kids swinging merrily from colorful metal monkey bars, kicking each other and laughing as they fell to the safe, carpeted ground underneath. The boy stared at them jealousy.
“No, I don’t. You’re all worthless creatures. You all just keep on getting pushed down no matter how handsome or smart or rich you are. No one cares about you. The world is a cruel place, kid. There’s no point living in it.” The kid made to interrupt him here before the Reaper started talking again. “And I’m doing the right job, I’m bringing you to a happier place where none of this exists.” He nodded to himself, reassuring his wandering heart that once again, life was not worth living.
The kid shook his head. “But didn’t you experience joy in your life? It doesn’t matter what you get because of what you’ve done. It’s the memories that count. They’re given to everyone. You must have some good memories, right? You must’ve had good friends, and good family or at least some good happen to you?” They had reached the house of his next victim. The Reaper felt tired.
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“Perhaps so, boy but the bad outweighs the good. Life will just throw you around again. You think you’ll do good and get good, you think that the good experiences in life outweigh the bad, but in the end, no matter how long you live the bad still takes over.”
The boy shakes his head slowly. “How about the time I won the Lego building contest? The time I got to eat so many fries I puked? The time I played with my friends, stuffed my face with cake, played pirates with my mother? Do they all just outweigh the people who bully me? My parents who are too busy to care for me? I’d rather just live this life all over again, bad memories included if I get to experience those moments of joy. Life is unfair but it’s worth it in the best of moments.”
The boy had tears dripping down his face now. He wanted to be alive so badly. To make more good memories, The Reaper supposed. He thought back on his own former life. On his own happy memories. Him blowing out his 12th birthday cake while his family cheered in the background, flying his very first plane, proposing to his girlfriend in front of the Eiffel tower. They had made him feel so happy in the moment and if asked, he supposed he would go back and relive his life again, only to feel the controls in his hands, to see the cake knife sliding cleanly down to the chocolate underneath, to smile like he’d never before as she said yes. He thought of everything that had lead him to his suicide. His failure at work, his loneliness that had consumed him, his stupid limp. It all seemed kind of foolish now, to think of how many more happy memories he could’ve created, how many more times he could feel his wife’s hands in his, how many more times he could’ve given his kids the biggest, and happiest birthday parties in the world.
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The boy smiled sadly at him. “I suppose it’s time I go now? You’ve reached the house of your next client.”
The boy looked unsure now, his lip trembling as a small hand pushed back his floppy brown hair.
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“No.” He placed a hand on the boys’ back and steered him towards the stairs that had magically appeared before them.
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“I’m going to retire.” The Reaper wanted to live, now more so than ever. Who cared if living was unfair? Everything was unfair. It was just if you made it worthwhile.
Snow started falling through the sky then, coating everything in a fine layer of powdered sugar. And as the boy took a step up the stairs, so did the reaper.