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lobelia321I'm going to do what I used to do in my LJ days of yore when stumped or brave or on a high: Type fic straight into the entry box. I've got to write 400 words. Topic: Nick or Nancy in a snowstorm (Dean Wesley Smith's instructions are rather binary here). Really clear setting and what character feels about it. No plot. No use of the word 'white'.
Snowstorm
What was wrong with the wipers? But they'd died some miles back. Nick jiggled the leaver but nothing doing. The snow piled thick against the windshield. Which wasn't doing much windshielding, to judge from the way the Tesla's chassis was buffeted. Whoosh, went the wind from the left, and whoosh, went the wind from the right, and "Damn", went Nick in the middle of it all.
How far to Swan Hills? Was that a road sign up ahead? Hard to see in the swirling dusk. Could be a sign, could be a moose, for all Nick knew. He jabbed at the maps display, shining, beckoning, but the display was stalled on Freeman River. The car was all but crawling now. What had the guy at the gas station said? Something about winter tires? Maybe those winter tires would have prevented the rear end of his Model Y sashaying back and forth. Best not to go too fast.
Nick flipped open the glove box. The shiny new glove box, sleek and luxurious. Black, ergonomic, it sighed open and let out a scent of aftershave and leather. Inside, a knot of scrunched up candy bags. Nick clamped one hand to the top of the steering wheel, eyes peering at the angry wall of wildness, his free hand scrabbling around for a sour lozenge.
And what was that? That strange clanging sound? Brand-new Teslas weren't supposed to be making any kind of clanging sound. Were they? "Shit." And there went the lozenge, buffeted onto the hoovered foot well in a rain of sugared granules. The glove box lid flapped open, and the little interior lamp blinked on and off.
Nick flicked on the high beam. It made no difference. All it did was illuminate the dancing flakes more starkly. They flocked against the glass, like dead mosquitoes in summer. Except this wasn't summer, and this wasn't downtown Calgary, and his head was starting to hurt. Plus there was a buzzing in his left ear.
Both hands on the wheel now. Grabbing the clammy leather (de luxe detailing), with the car turning more and more into some sort of beast that wanted to merge with nature in this chaos of a road trip.
The silhouettes of pine trees (or were they firs?) loomed to left and right. Inside the car, Nick heard a thump, thump. It was his own heartbeat.
Snowstorm
What was wrong with the wipers? But they'd died some miles back. Nick jiggled the leaver but nothing doing. The snow piled thick against the windshield. Which wasn't doing much windshielding, to judge from the way the Tesla's chassis was buffeted. Whoosh, went the wind from the left, and whoosh, went the wind from the right, and "Damn", went Nick in the middle of it all.
How far to Swan Hills? Was that a road sign up ahead? Hard to see in the swirling dusk. Could be a sign, could be a moose, for all Nick knew. He jabbed at the maps display, shining, beckoning, but the display was stalled on Freeman River. The car was all but crawling now. What had the guy at the gas station said? Something about winter tires? Maybe those winter tires would have prevented the rear end of his Model Y sashaying back and forth. Best not to go too fast.
Nick flipped open the glove box. The shiny new glove box, sleek and luxurious. Black, ergonomic, it sighed open and let out a scent of aftershave and leather. Inside, a knot of scrunched up candy bags. Nick clamped one hand to the top of the steering wheel, eyes peering at the angry wall of wildness, his free hand scrabbling around for a sour lozenge.
And what was that? That strange clanging sound? Brand-new Teslas weren't supposed to be making any kind of clanging sound. Were they? "Shit." And there went the lozenge, buffeted onto the hoovered foot well in a rain of sugared granules. The glove box lid flapped open, and the little interior lamp blinked on and off.
Nick flicked on the high beam. It made no difference. All it did was illuminate the dancing flakes more starkly. They flocked against the glass, like dead mosquitoes in summer. Except this wasn't summer, and this wasn't downtown Calgary, and his head was starting to hurt. Plus there was a buzzing in his left ear.
Both hands on the wheel now. Grabbing the clammy leather (de luxe detailing), with the car turning more and more into some sort of beast that wanted to merge with nature in this chaos of a road trip.
The silhouettes of pine trees (or were they firs?) loomed to left and right. Inside the car, Nick heard a thump, thump. It was his own heartbeat.