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Weekly Contest #227
Bits of white danced with the windshield wipers. The red car sped through the dreary landscape like a bloody bullet shot through a body in a movie. The blacktop cut through dead leaves, dead grass, balding trees, and birds who hadn’t thought about flying south for the winter. Flurries flew from a vertical to a diagonal as a strong wind bent the birches double like crippled old men. Hunchbacked in a storm, their arms accepted the gift of snow. It was something to fill their hands, their branches in a time of emptiness. Harry watched the dead ...
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