The winter series of Zelder Stories has started...
When it started snowing, it got warmer and there were more people outside. A little boy waddled like an oversized duckling across a playground that was piled with snow. He stopped at a swing and blinked melted snowflakes off his lashes. An old man went by, snorted and wrapped his old scarf tighter around his neck. The boy's eyebrows made a puzzled twitch.
"Go home," the old man shouted to him over the shoulder, "no one plays here in winter."
The boy pushed the seesaw with his mittened hand and the metal bars screeched.
"It's frozen," a woman said. The boy turned to the voice and the woman brushed some snow off her long red coat and the wide brim of her black hat. "You can't play here, it's winter," she said with a smile and walked on. The boy looked up to the sky blinking and caught some snowflakes with his open mouth.
A young couple went by and laughed, whispering something to each other.
The boy caught some snowflakes on his mitten, puffed a warm breath on them and watched them melt. Then he caught some more, puffed again and watched. He stood there for hours watching snowflakes turn to water beads. He could have thought it was fascinating, had he known the word. He was simply happy.
There was an old half-deteriorated factory at the far end of the city. The building loomed against the snowless ground and bare trees. Two boys ran across the road towards it leaving deep footprints in the drowsy grass soaked in slush. Soon after the boys disappeared inside the building, the sound of broken glass echoed across the woods.
I am a very curious person, so I followed the boys to see what they were doing. I found them on the second floor smashing bottles against the walls. I leaped to the side to avoid a glass shard that bounced off the wall just behind me.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked the boys. They froze terrified, though only for a moment. Regaining the juvenile sense of safety and carelessness, one of the boys said: " 'is just fun, lady."
Everyone was very optimistic in December and hoped for a White Christmas. Sometimes hopes are there to be shattered.