backhand stories the creative writing blog

It was one of those days in the middle of spring that come along to humble you and remind you that Mother Nature is the ultimate ego; spitting and crying at once, soaking you and freezing you and making you walk with your shoulders up around your ears and the coat you’ve all but forgotten about pulled tightly across your back. One of those bitter half-green half-grey days where ice piled up and fell over chunks of wild onions and yellow wildflowers.

There was snow falling inside the frozen rain but it was so outnumbered I couldn’t help but feel sorry for it.

The poor weather looked like the invisible riot that takes place between good and bad, and today, the angels were being pummeled and thrown between the group of demons while they each took their turn taking blows against them. It was a day that was completely void of the ability to decide, crippled, and this indecisive energy seemed to seep into the minds of the people that inhabited the hours like a cruel and illegal social experiment meant to show us exactly how controlled we really are. There were people who assumed authority against the storm, completely prepared, rain boots and umbrellas poised like riot gear worn by the cops and squads, as well as some zombie like creatures, who still rely on their parents to give them a daily rundown, including lunch money and a weather report.

As for me, I was something in the middle of creature and riot cop. No umbrella protected me as I broke through the tantrum, but I did pull my coat tightly around me, and that was good enough.