Walking in the Urbs on a Snowy Evening


               Vivien McInerny

Twilight is creeping on. The snow takes on a blue tint. A steep city street, abandoned by wise
drivers and persnickety pedestrians, is crowded with scores of kids pulling sleds and saucers
all but forgotten in the backs of garages until early this morning when they were dusted off
and set teetering atop the hill which suddenly appears much more daring.

Swoosh down. Run up. Down again. They’ve been at it since the first ‘All Portland public
schools closed’ announcement and they are there still as the sky fades to black and
streetlights glow steadily brighter.
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Joyful is one of those words that sound antiquated and fake -- like ‘merry’ or "glorious" - but
remains the best description of the noise that comes from the mouths of these snow-covered
creatures of the hill. No words; just squeals and screams from the girls, and voice-cracking-
attention- grabbing shouts of bravado from the teenage boys who speed down the hill too fast
for mothers to look, too fast for teenage girls not to.

Teens are as stupid as they’ve always been. Boys try to shove snow down the collars of girls’
jackets. Girls try to run away. But not too hard. They get cold and wet and complain but stay.

The little kids, fearless and slightly stupid to the ways of the world and gravity, jump on plastic
disks and set spinning wildly downward just missing the bumper of a parked car and simply
laugh as though they have forgotten, or have not yet realized, that they are not cartoon
characters who can take an anvil to the head but humans who hurt.

Dogs bark. The kids, the cold, this white stuff falling from the sky and covering all the good
smells makes no sense but still tails wag.

Mittens are lost.

Someone finds a red one, woolly and nubby knit with a holy thumb, and puts it on a ski pole
stuck in a pile of snow. It looks like it’s waving. It looks like it’s giving a thumbs-up sign: More
snow tomorrow.
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© Vivian McInerny


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What we like about this story: It paints such a clear picture of exactly what that kind of late
afternoon, just darkening time, is like.  This story is full of atmosphere and perfect observations.
We like this story because:
It is almost a prose poem.  In just a few
atmosphere that all those living in
cooler temperate climes will recognise.
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