Written for the In The Bleak Midwinter writing challenge 2026 Day 1: Frosty Wind Made Moan. Come and join us!
The blizzard was blowing snow up against the small panes in the latticed windows of the old cottage when it started. John would fix the gables—or whatever it was that that was causing that infernal noise, but not while the weather was against him. The keening came and went like someone running out of breath, then starting up again. He tried to ignore it, drowning it in the spiced home brew he made for medicinal purposes. He had resorted to it many times since Jean… never mind. He was running out, just a few bottles left.
It had never occurred to him to name the dog, which curled up in a corner, shivering despite the roaring fire. Watching, always watching since… never mind. Those dark brown eyes and curled-in tail accused him, reminded him of Jean in ways he couldn’t express. But her eyes were green. He remembered that, even through the haze of drunken self-pity that selected the memories he entertained—or ignored. The hour was late, the fire was dying, and his eyelids were drooping, but when John went to his empty bed, sleep eluded him.
The wailing continued, fading in and out as the battered old alarm clock ticked the hours away. Every time he opened his eyes, the fluorescent spots on the hour and minute hands showed him how long it would be until daylight returned. He turned to her side of the bed, reaching for the warmth that was no longer there. A sharp pang pierced his heart and stung his eyes. Guilt punched him in the gut when he remembered why.
He got up and went to the ewer to pour water into the basin, but nothing came out because Jean always did that. He punched the small table with the side of his fist and cried out. The wailing turned into a howl. John howled back, roaring defiance. The wailing grew louder. John fell to his knees, sobbing, heedless of the rough floorboards and the freezing cold room. The brightness shining through the frost-painted window told him that daylight had broken when the last of his tears had rolled down his stubbled cheeks. He got up as quickly as his stiff limbs would allow and dressed himself, then put on his coat and boots. It took a good tug to get the front door open. He waded through the snow to the barn and climbed up to the loft, to the corner where he’d left her wrapped in old rags and covered in hay. There was no sign of disturbance, as if the rats and mice knew better than to disturb Jean’s repose. He put his hand into the hay until his fingers encountered her limp form. “I can’t bury you, Jean, the ground is too hard,” he said, grief straining his voice. He climbed back down the ladder to see to the cow, then milked her.
On his way back to the cottage he noticed a spear of green poking out of the ground. When he went to see what it was, he smiled. The first snowdrops were beginning to bloom.
This is the first installment of my “In The Bleak Midwinter” story series.
Wow, that was something! So sad but so well written 🔥
Ah. Sad, but hopeful in a strange way. I liked it!