Baby, It's Cold In Here

The leaves are turning grey, and my feet are desecrating their piled congregations as I trudge towards an undetermined destination. The air has a frigid tint to it--a distinctly sickly pallor has pervaded its sweet summery hue. The whipping of the wind and swirling of the migratory leaves leave me breathless and cold, my thin jacket not nearly enough to repel the frosty fingernails of this incipient winter season. 

This is just another pointless ambling, coupled with the meaningless rambling of my shivering mind, hidden behind these half-lidded eyes, stinging with the gusts of winter's heartbreak. Surviving winter alone has never been easy, and I haven't had to for so long now--with this in mind, even as the sun breaks through the monochromatic cloud cover, I can't seem to feel the warmth. The wisps of wind sound like whispers of laughter. 

I absentmindedly strip a crumbling leaf from a branch and watch as it flits away on the wind, a memory so small that I most certainly will never think of it again. 

If only.

Author's Note

A rather ambiguous story in anticipation of...WINTER :D

Reviews

[kasG]

I really enjoyed this, but I think it would make much more sense structured as a poem. In fact, I read it as poetry, with line breaks and dramatic pauses.

a couple of grammatical points:
"Just another pointing ambling" - did you mean pointed? that would make more sense
"half lidded eyes stinging" - should be" half-lidded eyes, stinging"

"with this is mind" - just accidentally have a double space.

Otherwise, very, very good. Mood and tone are pitch perfect; language is eloquent. Very enjoyable write. Thanks for sharing.

[FJ Davis]

Judging by the mood and tone of this piece, those "whispers of laughter" must have been derisive.
You seem to have a flair for the dramatic, Ben. Wouldn't rule out writing plays if I were you--although, frankly, I have no idea how you might handle dialogue. I suspect, however--if you chose to--you would become quite proficient at it.
In Shakespeare's day, "much ado about nothing" was considered a negative; today, writing that closely examines--"microscopes"--a seemingly insignificant moment or event is in great demand. Because, of course, these moments might not be as meaningless as they may first appear. As in quantum mechanics, the observer often transforms events just by being there. And, perhaps, just as important, symbolism--our universally unspoken language--continually communicates vital information to the subconscious--which the conscious mind often eventually speaks; remaining blissfully unaware it was not the source of that speech.
OK, either the speaker truly dreads the winter season, or he feels he is entering a "winter of the soul"--or both.
For the season, he should get himself a really warm coat, a hat and some gloves. For his soul, he should find something to love.
"Baby, It's Cold In Here" tells us a lot about how the poet is feeling, but not why or how he got there--information, we may, if we wish, attempt to infer or conjecture. We can surmise, though, that--for the foreseeable future--the poet will continue nursing a "blue funk."
Since this funk was "inspiration" for such an intriguing and well-composed bit of flash fiction (slice-of-life, perhaps?) he may want to investigate how many more excellent pieces he might create before the blues move on.