AN: I don't own Tron, only the drabble here before you.
Snow. That's what it's called, by so many. But the foreign languages do a far better job of capturing its different forms. (1)
Lightness that floats down, sometimes in clumps, and sometimes in tiny shapes that melt the moment you get too close trying to see the little points and indents. Sometimes calm, sometimes an unrelenting barrage against your exposed face. Purity that melts on your tongue.
Glittering snow, catching the light, little sparkles as you walk past, tiny imitations of the bright sun above. Marvel at the untouched, the vast expanse of white.
Dry, powdery snow stirred up as people speed down icy slopes. Wet snow that can be formed into men and walls and globes, the kind of snow which people curse at when they get stuck in it. Brown snow, pressed into the road by motorcycles and other vehicles. Warm, then sudden cold again, then one must be careful of the ice hidden underneath the snow, or find yourself spread-eagled on the ground, wondering what happened, while he tries hard not laugh, and offers you a gloved hand. One that you take, feeling the cold cloth as you pull him down in retaliation.
Snow flying, over you and into you as you fly down the hill on a toboggan. The wind whistling, laughing as it tosses your hood back. The small feeling of flight when your path takes you off a bump, the impact as you land, the small disappointment when momentum can take you no farther. The struggle back up the hill, sometimes slipping back a bit. When you nearly crash into someone else, forcing you to wipe out to avoid freezing tears and snot of far younger people.
The snow slipped down your coat, the snow thrown angrily (though only momentarily) at his laughing face. The small powder waves that ripple when cars roll by, stirring up the dry coldness. The young people laughing and diving into it, making reptile feet and winged beings and stomping out words to those far above the surface. The blocks of crusted snow that mock you as you gingerly step on it, only to fall through as the softness hiding underneath invades your boot. The same crust that can be carefully 'cut' and made smooth, made into shapes and 'Hey, doesn't this look like a-?'
The snow piled up in mountains and valleys against the window, more and more layers growing unseen as the days and nights pass. Snow watched as hot chocolate is finished, cup after cup, the foam on your lips quickly wiped/licked away, tongues scalded when too eager to have a sip. A blanket, white line patterns on a black background, protecting you from shudders and goosebumps. A blanket that flaps as he joins you, sitting together after a day of working the company into better shape, his voice soft as he reads of faraway places, ideas people had, the universe, the possibilities out there.
This is snow, this is winter, this is what comes of it.
AN: Ok, I know Sakora-Rose has got something similar, but I wrote it before I became aware, and I'll be focusing on the physical more. Sakora was kind enough to give permission for this too... so there you go.
If I remember correctly, the Inuit have around 17(?) different words for snow.
Should I continue? Do you like the style, or should I use something else? Tell me what you think! In other words, R&R if you want to see more!
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