Southern Snow Storm: A Parent’s Journal of Survival

Day 1:

The snowfall has begun.  It came in the night under the cloak of darkness, masking all that is warm and pure in this beach town.  My family and I have planned well and we should have enough provisions to survive this treachery.

It’s been over twelve hours now, and it keeps falling.  My confidence in surviving is seeping out of my pores as each flake drops from the clouds.  Deeper and deeper.  Six inches now.  I don’t know how we’ll make it through this.

The young ones don’t understand the danger.  They want to catch snowflakes on their tongues—tasting each murderous, icy flake—much like a psychopath would lick the blood from his blade.

We are keeping the children occupied with junk food and video games for now.  The sounds of the game system, coupled with their incessant arguing over petty problems has driven me to break into my box of wine prematurely.

I fear if they keep eating like ravenous beasts, the rations won’t last.  Same goes for my wine. I’ve had five glasses already.


Day 2:

We lost power today.  The agony in the children’s screams was unbearable.  When they lost their game progress because they forgot to save, it was like the gates of hell opened up and their innocence was sucked into oblivion.  Their screeches crippled my sanity and drove me back to the wine.  I cried in the corner while I stole from my secret stash of chocolate. Everyone has secrets.

Remember to save the game! Remember!

The power was out for a full ten minutes before they were able to resume gameplay.  Turns out that the system auto-saved for them anyway.  The temperature in the house dropped two degrees during those ten minutes.  No human should have to endure this.

The dog won’t pee outside.  Her paws can’t handle the frozen tundra of our backyard. There’s something evil and unnatural masking her earth.  Dogs can sense these things.

The chips are gone.  Two bags in two days.  But with the power back on, and the snowfall slowing, spirits are high.  There is hope on the horizon, where the sun sets and the clouds are parting.  A red-orange symbol of purity and strength may be setting, but it will meet us in the morning.  We just need to make it through the cold night.  Tomorrow, the temperatures should be better, and we’ll be back to our normal lives.


Day 3:

Normal living did not come today.  Temperatures did not rise above the freezing point once.  Diamond-like flecks swirl through the air in a blustery dance against the backdrop of an overcast day.  I don’t know where we are anymore.  I don’t understand this new world.  It was seventy degrees last week.

However, we are strong.  In defiance of nature, we ventured outside to face our new world—the one blanketed in a sheet of icy, white gloom.  The children breathed in some fresh air and the breeze seemed to cut our skin, lashing our cheeks with redness.  After a mere five minutes, the youngest warned us that his “fingers were literally freezing off…literally.”  We rushed inside to warm him, prepared to do whatever was necessary to treat frost bite and prevent the progression of gangrene.

His fingers were salvaged.  Come to find out, they were not “literally” freezing off after all. Despite the survivalists saying that we don’t need schoolroom education in this dog-eat-dog world, I disagree.  We nearly amputated the boy’s fingers due to his misuse of basic vocabulary.  Homeschool education will have to begin if school does not start soon.

The boxed wine is almost empty already.  In hindsight, I should have bought more. Mouthwash has alcohol in it, right?


Day 4:

Turns out that our mouthwash was alcohol-free, but when poured in a wine glass, it almost feels like drinking the real thing.  Morale is up for now, despite the stench of the urine-soaked newspapers saturating the breathable air.

Fortunately I have plenty of coffee.  When rummaging through the refrigerator for scraps, I found a nearly-empty spray can of whipped cream.  Oh, the luxury of a dollop of whipped cream on coffee… The kids were in the other room, and I was certain they’d come running at the sound of that can.  My survival instincts kicked in.  The whipped cream was mine.  I coughed loudly to mask the sound of its hissing and sputtering into my cup.  It worked, but I think the children are on to me. Suspicious glares catch me covering the top of my coffee as I sip.  They ask why the spray can of whipped cream is empty.

I may not survive the night.

The message on the screen now informs us that school will be closed again tomorrow. Society is crumbling.  My shoulders drop at the sight of those words, and my heart aches for our future.  This eternal ice age has taken its toll and it won’t be long before our family turns against each other. How much longer is a parent expected to endure?


(A self-prompted writing exercise by Red Lagoe: Fictional Journal Entry)

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