Vote for your favorite springtime drabbles! (5 votes per member)
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1. Please vote for your top 5 (between BOTH questions) and please don't vote for yourself!
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There’s this square on my way to work. It’s small, tucked in between tall buildings, framed by rows of trees and a kebab shop. They do a food festival every now and again, so I’ll slow down when I go by on my bike because it’s busy, and also just to watch for a while. It’s a nice square; clean, but nothing special. But for a fortnight in spring, the trees burst into bloom overnight, and cloak the little square in soft clouds and seas of delicate pink, so amiss in an otherwise grey city. I missed that this year.5
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She collected the sound of his voice. The view of him, spring dew clinging to the caramel ends of his hair. Who was this strange creature? How could someone so rugged be possessed to kneel to the ground, digging in the dirt for May tulips? But he was purely him. Fingers running along the side of her jaw, pointing out fire foxes emerging from their burrows. A 6AM sunsoft smile, minty teeth that reminded her of melting snow. He took her in his arms and showed her everything. The world woke up. She fell asleep. Dreamt about him; fawns were called to him and he had observations of small beauties.3
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Rain blue eyes settled on Albus’s rises and falls. “What are you watching?” Murmured Scorpius in his delicate voice. “The rabbits. Look,” his arm became elongated, pointing in the direction of the storm-stained window. Albus was always picking up moments. He was magical in more than the typical ways. He stored memories away like a scrapbook in his head. Scorpius’s favourites were of springtime: dances in vicious winds hurling raindrops, small creatures making eye contact for a flash of a second, flowers blooming away from the ignorant human eyes. “Can you show me the way you see things?” Albus tugged Scorpius closer and they watched the rabbits together.0
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In spring, the ghosts that had been hibernating all winter came out of the walls. They looked like water stains peeling off the wallpaper and taking flight. Clouds oozing out of the skirting. They filled my airways and my mildewed lungs seized. “Go on.” I opened the window, coughing. “Get out of here. Move out. Move on.” They drifted away, an exodus of bodies sculpted from old phlegmy breath. One of the ghosts turned to me. Half her head had caved in. Her face was patched with green mould. Mist fingers wound around my wrist. “Aren’t you coming?” she said.6
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THE COURT: Does the defendant wish to say anything before sentence is pronounced? MS. NAKAO: She does, Your Honor. THE COURT: Very well. I’m listening. THE DEFENDANT: Your Honor, I loved my husband. I still do. I’ll never forgive myself, and I don’t expect anyone else to, but I’m so sorry. I know it won’t ever be enough, but I am. I wasn’t in my right mind. I couldn’t take it, it was so loud. Like I could never get it out of my head. I just snapped. I know it was wrong, but Your Honor… He just wouldn’t… stop… sneezing...3
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Waking up before the sun had fully risen to its height, Alice stretched before going for her morning run, going to the window she could smell the light spring shower gently falling on the ground. The fresh and crisp green leaves and blossoms that are blooming everywhere are a delight to her eyes. When spring first hits she feels excited about all of the possibilities that will come about in this new season of life. On the way back to the apartment, she felt the sun shine down on her neck like a warm embrace. Spring is finally here and she was excited for this next chapter.0
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She is the swell of rain; unpredictable and invigorating, even the flutter of her eyelash is a novelty -- a shuddering wind that beckons a spirited shower. She is the sunburst of rebirth; knowing and inviting, her grin awakens the blossoming buds -- an irruption of elegance to expel the last bite of Winter’s breath. She is the call of songbirds; determined but mild, her whispered breath reawakens -- a sweet caress upon their ears to gently rouse them from their seasonal slumber. She is a tender hand; she is a mother’s kiss; she is the warmth upon the breeze. She is Spring.3
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SPRING: We need to talk. WINTER: Yo? SPRING: Did you think that was funny? WINTER: yeah SPRING: A cold front in the middle of May is FUNNY to you? WINTER: yes SPRING: WTF? You wiped out crops! They’ll never be finished in time! People will starve. That amuses you? WINTER: THE MORE I FUCK WITH THE REST OF YOU, THE LESS CHANCE THEY HAVE TO SURVIVE MY RETURN. SPRING: …what? WINTER: THE TIME HAS COME. I WILL REIGN SUPREME. THE WORLD SHALL BOW. |SPRING ADDED SUMMER TO THE CHAT| WINTER: oh shit SUMMER: You were saying? WINTER: ...nothing. SPRING: Good. Now fix this.1
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That perfect Spring day cradled us in grassy beds, an opulent morning sun calling home the dew of our skin. I watched you dance for hours, giggling at the lazy swaying the warming winds commanded of you. Golden tresses adorned you like a crown, enrapturing me completely. Even as the night bade me to refuge, you invaded my every thought. The next day was dismal, with skies that spoke of rain, but I was unafraid. That is, until I witnessed your gold had transformed to grey. I plucked you up in panic but you fled in the wind, piece by piece. My beloved dandelion, gone.3
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Spring arrives, another notch on stone. The holes in Azkaban’s walls turn into cataractous eyes weeping rheumy moonlight. Sirius remembers loping across the heathery moors as Padfoot the dog, fast enough to generate his own wind. The flash of a long-limbed hare in his peripheral vision. Better to remember nothing. If he has nothing, the Dementors get nothing. Time wheels on in Azkaban. Seasons and notches. If only he had caught that hare. Snatched it by the scruff of its neck, flesh slack between his canines, and let the twin deceits of time and memory unspool into blinding, vicious red.2
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Luna came downstairs to a vernal riot. Fickleberry vines spilling out of the kitchen. Dirigible plums ramming themselves against the windows. The floor, a racket of harebells and squabbling skipplepods. Pandora beamed when she saw her daughter. “Luna, love, what do you think?” A tall foxglove snuck up behind Luna. Water poured out of its flowers, drenching her. Pandora brandished a teapot and caught all the rain in it. “Stop that!” “I love it!” Luna laughed. “Can we herd the bumblebees?” “Of course.” Pandora conjured up a cup. Steaming, peppermint-spiced liquid poured out of the pot. “But first, some tea.”3
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In winter’s death, a son returns, powerful magic running through his veins, slashing at the body of his father. With the last trickle of blood draining from the corpse, Tom Riddle dies and the final cold wind of dead winter ushers in spring, dark clouds ever-present, heralding a new age, a dark age. Flowers that bloomed just days ago, pure white snowdrops emerging from the still damp earth, trickles of snow remnants of a long winter, are now tinted deep, dark red of his father’s blood. Surrounded by the fragrant scent of flowers, Tom Riddle smirks. I am Lord Voldemort.1
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I gasp with a dying breath, the rays of sun bathing me in warmth, my outer layer melting, scorching, roots of what should be dead and gone prowling through my insides, tendrils and vines wrapping themselves firmly, and going up, up towards the sun. The pain is unbearable, the lilting robins’ song another harbinger of doom, the omen of what comes after. A butterfly flaps its wings and I know my time has come. One last battle, a couple of snowflakes whirling in the wind, and then I am gone.3
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I remember the spring times of my youth much more vividly, packed with new and exciting things – dregs of snow melting to reveal soft lilac crocuses, leaving the house without a jacket for the first time in months, ice cream parlours reopening. Nowadays, everything blends into one. I haven’t seen snow for years and I carry a jacket way into summer. From Octobers to Aprils, everything’s turned into an undistinguishable mess of grey sludge, and it takes effort not to miss those moments of fleeting beauty. So I went out to buy some deliciously tart raspberry ice cream.0
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Nearly into the light of the summer. The first chirping of robins and ray of sun that stirs you awake before the alarm. The tickling of pollen on a windy day. A skirt blowing dangerously, saying too soon, keep those jeans ready. Sunshine so warm it breaks through the chill that you lay back and soak for a while, ignoring the dampness of the grass on your skin for just a minute. The surprise of the rain that breaks the heat and brings you back to reality. We are out of the darkness but only half way into the light.1
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Will stood at the doorway to the playyard. Nerves fought with excitement as the cool spring air brushed against his face. He wanted to avoid the big kid whacking sticks against the fencepost. Then he saw Marly under the big tree. He sat halfway around it, close enough to see her out of the corner of his eye, then opened his sketchbook to draw. “Are those flowers?” Marly peered over his shoulder. Outside the classroom, he could speak to her without whispering, but for some reason, he whispered anyway. “They remind me of you.”2
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She’s seen many springs, ninety-two in all. Crisis after crisis, surviving But then she fell. . . . . She’s in pain and no visitors allowed. Slowly fading, her mind--distant. barely answers the phone. She talks of good-bye, So I tap on her window. I hold up my phone. And pray she remembers how. COVID won’t last forever. Spring will fade to summer. Soon we can see you again. Hug you. Hold your hand. When? Soon, grandma. Hurry, please. As soon as they allow us. This week? No, grandma. This month? Probably not In the spring? Hopefully this summer. Hurry, please. I’m tired and summer is so far away. I’m coming, grandma. I promise.1
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“We were standing right there when it happened,” the boy said, gesturing emphatically to a spot near the Whomping Willow that Professor Sprout would have classed as ‘a place to stand if you want to be beheaded.’ Some third-year’s toad was hopping around the base of the tree—and she was very close to saying that was just where it lived now. But it was an invasive species, and the right time of year for it to lay eggs— “Accio toad,” she said. It landed in her hand with a wet slap. “Try that yourself next time, will you?”3
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Harry was out on the Hogwarts grounds. It was the first nice spring day in about a week. He was hoping Quidditch practice would take place today so he could fly in the nice weather. Nice spring days were perfect for Quidditch. He had his broom with him, his Firebolt from Sirius. He wandered aimlessly towards the Quidditch pitch. He was debating flying anyway, even if there was no Quidditch practice. He needed the fresh air. He arrived at the pitch and mounted his Firebolt. He took off and reveled in the feeling of freedom he got. This was the best feeling ever. The best day ever.1
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The sun shining down should have meant it was warm outside, Draco thought, and wished he had his house scarf as he finished a brisk journey from the castle to the lake. Perhaps the water had something to do with it—Spring air becoming damp and chilling as it scattered across its surface. The water swallowed the stones at its edge, over and over. Cold and dark. Something you would never want to touch. White crocuses had sprung up since he had last walked here, but he steadfastly ignored them. It would be unbecoming to be seen as a romantic.0
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2. Please vote for your top 5 (between BOTH questions) and please don't vote for yourself!
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It happened in springtime during one of the HP books. Can you name the book and scene? RIDDLE #1 Promises are kept Death arises Judging is cast Perspectives skewed Truth is hidden RIDDLE #2 No brooms today For no one is safe Prefects and academics Speculum saves RIDDLE #3 The cards were thrown The hidden lost The prize was won Then flew away. RIDDLE #4 Feathers and fur fly Foes and now friends RIDDLE #5 Herald the news Outrageous but true Hear the truth Decide your view0
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Spring. A time to wash away the coldness of winter. Spring. A time for brighter, happier days. Spring. A time for new life to be ushered into the world. She breathed in the smell of the flowers that surround them, the warm air filling her with happiness. "What do you think of Rose?" He looked around at the different coloured roses that filled the garden. "I think it's perfect," he told her, his hands coming to rest on her bump. Spring had finally arrived.0
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Everything will be better in the spring. I won’t hide in my room, listening to my children play their games, invisible as a ghost. I won’t hesitate to dance the line between pleasure and pain that music cuts through my soul. I won’t be so tired that I lie in bed, scrolling Twitter instead of watching the rain blur the green outside my window. (It’s funny, the lies we tell ourselves. I pull my blankets over my head, while my children splash through the rain alone.) Everything will be better in the spring.2
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I am a wise little thestral, for I’ve seen two springs now. I’ve seen the children creeping out of the castle, leaving their cloaks and mittens behind. I’ve seen the potions-man scouring our clearing, hunting for the scales we forgot after shedding our winter skins. I know that when the asparagus tips and the ramps shoots put up their heads we’re almost there, and I wait very very quietly until I see them-- --the bats coming back to play!3
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it takes a special kind of kid to play catcher. it’s hot and sticky, and when the batter fouls one off into your facemask and you’re spittin’ dirt--you’d better stop it or it’s your ass. you ain’t the pretty boy on the mound. don’t nobody notice you unless you screw up. but when that ball shoots past the batter--and makes that sweet, sharp THUNK as it hits your mitt-- --you can keep all your CRACKS and LOOONNGG GOOONNNEES-- --this here’s the sweetest sound in the mother-lovin’ world.4
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‘Spring has sprung!’ sang Ginny. ‘I know,’ Harry said gloomily. She turned from the common room window. ‘You know spring is a good thing, right?’ ‘It just reminds me that soon it will be summer, and school will be over and--’ He broke off, swallowing, before whispering, ‘I don’t want it to be over.’ Something was going to be different next year, Ginny knew. Especially with Dumbledore gone. She didn’t think Harry was coming back to Hogwarts. Ginny leaned down, letting her hair brush his hand, creating a curtain from the outside world, to murmur, ‘Then we should enjoy it while we can.’1
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With the Dursleys out for the day, Harry could do whatever he wanted. He could play one of Dudley’s video games, jump on Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon’s bed, or eat ice cream right from the tub. But instead, as soon as the Dursley’s car had disappeared around the end of the drive, Harry stepped outside. It was a beautifully warm day, the lawns green and lush. Aunt Petunia’s roses and next door’s lavender combining to create one bright, refreshing smell. Harry lay down in the grass, shaded by the house, and closed his eyes, enjoying the moment without the grating voices barking orders at him.1
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There are times when the rain nudges me awake in the morning. I keep my window open so that the trees, such carefree beings with their rustling laughter, don’t feel like strangers. But sometimes, the rain sneaks into town at dawn. I open my eyes, hearing droplets dance on my rooftop to the applause of tiny audiences. I stretch my arms, seeing frisky showers tickle nearby trees until their branches quiver with suppressed delight. ‘You know,’ I want to say, ‘it is awfully rude to interrupt someone’s sleep like this.’ Yet the world always brightens when the rain comes, so I smile and watch the rain play.4
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8 a.m., out the door—fashionably dressed, of course. A vicious sneeze. Ah, frightened a squirrel. Strange. Didn’t know they could fly into the treetops like that. Some blunt breezes today: they jeer at my knees, provoke goosebumps across my arms. Currently shivering, chattering, feeling terribly unhappy. Back through the door. Soft, simple cardigan, behind all the heavy duty winter wear. Perfect. 8:15 a.m., out the door v.2—less fashionably dressed now, but warmer. Perhaps even comfortable. (Note for future: breezes fear cardigans.) 3 p.m., displeased—less fashionably dressed and overheated like a stupid summer popsicle. Extremely Bad Experience. Early springtime: -3/10.4
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Luna loved how the dirt coated her fingers while she set up her plants. It was spring, and her garden was blooming. She loved to plant flowers that attracted the wee grumpy gnomes. How she loved the gnomes, and she gave an extra handful of fertilizer to the tall gladiolus that David the gnome loved the best. “Not so much manure,” coughed out the gnome. “Covers up the scent, and that’s what we like best,” he reminded Luna with a playful glare. “Sorry!” she said and scrapped out some fertilizer, and he sighed with a happy smile.1
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Each rose lifted its head to the sun and allowed the rays to bath their fragile petals. Their green leaves on their stems eagerly drank up the sun and giggled when the raindrops tickled in the light summer drizzle. The breeze made the stems dance, and the ground gentle cuddled at the roots that delved deep. The hand reached to pluck the rose far down its stem, “Ouch!” its owner cried, and lifted to suck at the blood droplet caused by the feckless thorn. Even beauty is painful.2
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At this close of day, as the sun shines its final golden rays through the swaying tall grass and as the sweet lullaby of the loon crescendos from the nearby lake, my hand finds his. I can sense his surprise, causing a heated wave to foam in the bottom of my stomach. Before I have the chance to move my hand away, his fingers intertwine with my own, and just like I know that tomorrow’s sun will shine longer and that the loon’s song will hold more confidence, I know that he will be here to walk me home.3
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People post pictures of themselves online, wearing their new light jackets and sandals, sitting with friends on trendy restaurant patios, dreaming of sunny beach days. The weather’s now mild enough for my girl to stay warm in her coat (it was a cold winter), for my boy to be in his after-school club (gotta get home before dark). It’s the weekend, and my babies wanna go outside and play. But the people with guns don’t play, and they’re out there, stretching their muscles after a long hibernation, looking for a way to survive, to maybe get outta here someday.0
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Sirius opened the window and breathed the fragrance of the flowering hawthorn outside. Behind him, someone sneezed. “Close that at once!” cried Phineas Nigellus, his voice thick. “Can’t, spring cleaning. Besides, Buckbeak needs the air.” “Hang the brute! I’m your own flesh and blood.” “More like oil and turpentine.” “Really, you must close it! I can’t abide the pollen.” “How can paintings have allergies?” “It’s psychosomatic.” “Excuse me?’ “Sorry, that’s a /big word/. It’s when a bodily malady originates in the soul.” Sirius sighed. “Phineas, you don’t have a body. And jury’s still out on whether you have soul.” He strode off, Phineas protesting in his wake.6
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Rain fell warm and sweet, raising the musk of damp earth. Audrey was folding the gingham blanket when she saw Percy, running towards her with a newspaper over his head. “Sorry I’m late.” He was precisely on time, late for him. “I wanted to surprise you, but it’s ruined.” She gestured helplessly at the picnic basket. He stepped closer to share his newspaper; she could see every raindrop on his glasses. “Not necessarily.” The rain overhead morphed suddenly into flower petals, showering them harmlessly. “How is this possible?” she breathed. He swallowed, bracing himself. “Audrey, there’s something I have to tell you. . .”3
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She senses the quickening of the forest, groundwater seeping underfoot, sap coursing down budding trees, worms racing through the dark earth. Her blood surges sympathetically as she crouches on the forest floor, a blanket of withered leaves, and cuts a spring of nightshade with her pocketknife. Knowing her for what she is, toads and crows and hares emerge as she passes silently through the trees, now stooping to harvest a toadstool, now standing on tiptoe to pluck a cuckoo’s egg from a bird’s nest. Tonight she’ll add the nightshade to an enchanted brew, the bloom of life into a cup of death.3
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Dawn breaks in hues of pink and gold, and I let the spring sun’s rays promise new beginnings. In a year of death and darkness, this moment feels like hope. I’ve shed another winter’s weight of fear and panic, and though I know this world owes me nothing, I dare to demand something anyway. For as frost melts and flowers bloom, so too can my heart thaw with the springtime and bloom in anticipation of a new tomorrow.2
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Breathe deeply, my darling, my dear one; inhale the scent of damp earth—heady, engulfing, a razor-thin line between the crisp aroma of new life and the sweet scent of decay. Turn your face to the sky and feel the breeze shift your hair, soft fingers invisibly caressing. Hear the avian chorus join the afternoon’s symphony, voices rising in adulation atop the final raindrops pattering the storm’s denouement on your skin. Open your eyes and take in this moment, this moment, this moment. You are here.3
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