Short Little Stories

The writer lost his story everytime it began to snow.

The snow had been falling on and off for… ages now. He couldn’t remember the last time there had been a clear sky.

The writing seemed to come smoother when the sky was clear – so smoothly that he would sit down, and write, and write, and write. Some times he would put hundreds of pages out in a single sitting… other times, he couldn’t get through more than a single sentence. He went into almost a trance, the words coming out of their own accord, driven by some… outside influence.

It was the same story, every time. And every time the snow began to fall… he lost it.

He couldn’t find his writings, after. He couldn’t even remember what he wrote. All he knew is that he hadn’t finished it, and it was gone.

But he knew that he would have the chance to start again… and that one day, it would last long enough to be complete. And he knew, somehow, that once finished, it would be his forever. It would be whole… and so would he.

The snow, outside, was dying down. Little flurries, nothing more. And as the last one fell…

His mind went clear, like the sky. No thought… only action.

He took pen to paper:

“The writer lost his story everytime it began to snow.”