It was an ominous sound, much like I would imagine a nuclear blast might be. White powder shot up into the air, like volcanic ash, minus the fiery eruption. The mighty oak had fallen victim to one more powerful than he. Around us, there was only white, completely covering anything that had color. We had been teleported back, to a black and white world, by a winter imp named Quinn.
With no sympathy for the trees and bushes, he barreled his way through my front yard, taking with him whatever it was, that wasn’t firmly in the ground, and smashing that which he could not uproot. His heavy flakes, drenched in water and ice, lay heavily upon fragile branches, snapping them in two, with vindictive ease. He was angry. At what, I don’t know, and I didn’t want to know. I only wanted him to leave, and take his path of destruction with him.
Instead, he left us with the shimmering white of snowflakes, frosted to windows. A rather beautiful sight, if not for the mere fact, it would be impossible to remove the rather mountainous piles he left in his wake. I am, therefore, left thinking, Quinn got his way, trapping us beneath him with his treacherous wiles. As he departed, I could surely hear his evil laughter, dancing on the winds.
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