User:Nextoy/Short Stories/Winter Painting

As I had upon the earth all is white. Wind blowed hither and thither, bringing powdered cold with it. Inside I sit by the fire, sweet and bitter warmth in my hands. Even from within these wooden walls I wore an extra layer of cloth. Only my hands and face were not covered, for both were exposed to warm ceramics and the richness of blackened comfort.

To my side, watching the fire, sat my friend and companion. Thick fur did not agree with the heat of flame, for both their white coat and piercing blue eyes longed to blend in with the powdered frost outside. But I would not join them until my drink was finished, and they would not go where I do not.

We both listened to the radio. Whipping winds made the reception spotty, but we could keep up to date with the world. We knew the scores of our hockey team, we knew the politics of our elections, and we knew of the weather. These were the quintessential makings of the world beyond our woods.

Upon the wall hung a painting. The cabin in summer, surrounded by green trees. The forest which these walls were made from embraced the humble dwellings like a mother would its child. They did not see man's action as destruction, but as creation and preservation. Looking at the painting, I silently thanked the forest for my fire.

In the painting I stood front and center, wearing what I wear now; even then it was still cold. But it was cold like one who didn't know how to express themselves. Today, the outside was cold like being smothered by negligence.

And yet, from safe within these walls, it was beautiful.