This short story was written as part of a Creative Writing class. The scenario we were given was that a snowstorm had been raging for 36 hours....
Grabbing an armful of logs she tosses them one by one onto the fire, sending sparks of red ash upwards and into the room. The cold is harsh, causing her body to shrink into itself in a protective effort as she leaves behind the glowing living room and enters the dark sterility of the kitchen. She dumps some dirty plates in the sink and rushes back to the living room and into the range of the fire's comforting warmth.
A bookcase stands by the window, sparsely populated with tattered paperbacks and thin collections of poetry. On top is a journal, bulging with scraps of paper and napkins even - the sparks of inspiration that gave birth to the lines within. She takes it in her hand along with the pen from a caddy and peers out of the frosted glass alongside.
Almost every other evening she can see all the way down to the town and she often watches the figures go about their daily business; someone buys a paper at the newsstand, others stop to chat with friends on the street corner. These images always make her sad even though she enjoys imagining being part of their conversations. She is not afraid to walk among them, and she even manages to pass unnoticed many a time, but most of the time she can feel their eyes staring, can hear them asking that question or making comments as she walks on by. She has reduced her excursions to a minimum, making a weekly trip to the bookstore to read whatever new book of poetry first catches her eye. When she is among them she feels the urge to be a member of their community, yet deep down she holds on tightly to her very individual personality and the choices she has made.
That's what really makes her sad - that she can't be herself among them. Now, as the snow comes down with in a persistent flurry, obscuring even the shape of the roads in the town, her solitude increases. She finds herself missing the sight of the crowd, intensifying her isolation and the loneliness it brings. She focuses on the window that shimmers like a million tiny crystals, and gently touches it with her fingertip. Upon contact her skin tightens, nips her to the bone, yet at the same time the ice begins to melt. She traces out a line, lifting her finger for a second then returning it to form a letter, then another until, stepping back to review she reads aloud: FRANÇOISE. She stares for a moment at the letters and repeats her name, reaffirming within herself the connection she feels to it. Grasping the journal tightly she repeats it once more in a confident tone, then slowly walks away.
