Coffee on a Porch in Cold

(An excerpted short from a collection of stories in development.)


The wood of the door groaned. I had not heard the wind or its screams since the sun rose and martialed the colors awake. It quieted and I walked the verandah complete with a dark soul steaming in my hand so remote of taste the mind went wild and flavored each sip different — no matter of memory. Hundreds of feet in every direction, and nothing in sight but winged things far away sharp against the snow and stumps I had made over the weeks. Many logs left lying. No thing with two legs can run here.

I sat and watched shadows shift among the stumps like waves of darkness breaching one life overlapped, and then turned to a small barred window behind and listened for the sounds of another kind of brightness awaking inside, then shook the thought. The only thing that will awake soon is a storm of excessive snow and strength, if not more troubling.

A snap of breeze flushed warmth across the cheeks as I curled slight and searched for a hint of the ferocity that has slaked the objects of nature for as long as mokdows have neighed of kismettance yet to flow, and the eyes grazed over the steam billows of the dark soul seeming both close and hundreds of feet wide and far off broken by a neuter nod granted the moment, I felt, to give firmament due heed in hope of another windflung astral flush of snow and warmth.