Winter in a small village

The tiny village, located in a valley, almost surrounded entirely on three sides of the mountain, is named aptly. While I most certainly cannot give you this village name, just know it means “hidden from view”… or something like that. (Interpretation can likely come up with a number of similar phrases.)

The streets are nearly empty, save a few creatures of the night. Cats dot the shadows while the dogs roam the lit paths, well aware of their size advantage. Trash litters the gutters, yet currently, there is no trash able to be seen. It is covered in the melange of chocolate milkshake muddied rain.

The wind howls, and while this village is in the valley, surrounded almost entirely on three sides, the whipping currents of the wind are enough to create tornadoes out of even the heftiest of hefty bags. Carried like shrapnel from an explosion, the wind blasts the rain into the face of whatever opposes it. Over time paint is chipped, makeup smeared, glasses fogged…and yes my friends, tears are shed (that asshole.)

The clock strikes 9pm, and the area of shops known collectively as the “Marche” is eerily black. The ancient fountain in the middle sings of the glory days of the village, and even the hardest, windiest, most destructive rain could never effectively clean and purge the fountain from the dust and mummified condition it remains.

Why is nobody out? Where have all the inhabitants of the village gone?

The inhabitants of the village sit inside their homes, hurried away by the abrupt change in weather. Inside the home, are rooms filled with the pleasureful sounds of warm. Crackling fires, clapping and singing, babies cooing and chuckling, their sentences of wonderment sadly lost in the oblivion of brain to mouth function.

Inside, there is no such thing as “bundled up.” This phrase is turned on its’ head and people “bundle down.” Warm wood stoves crackle hot, and with this heat tea kettles whistle with joy like the end of the busiest work days. The sugary sweetness of the tea is masked by the piping hot liquid contained within the miniature glass. Eventually, given a little time, the tea will also warm the bellies of the consumers. Essentially, the chain is complete. Wood-Fire-Stove-Heat-Kettle-Water-Tea-Warm Bellies-Happy People.

The luckiest of the cat culture are allowed to lay near this beacon of warmth, where ne’er disturbed, they dream of bagpipes and kilts (my story, not yours.)

Outside, the wind and the rain continue to howl, upset at this dynamic, and the fact these two juggernaut bullies got the short end of the stick, and could not sit inside and warm their bellies with hot, sugary tea.

Eventually, the happy people tire, bodies flipping into recovery mode. The cycle will similarly repeat itself multiple times over the winter, sometimes, with rain’s more beautiful cousin snow.