by Mark Boliek
Chapter 11
Brandy still sat easily, content with the story, though the others stranded in the big old house were getting anxious to go out and play in the fresh blanket of snow.
Snow is a funny thing, I believe. It is so beautiful, but so dangerous. It paints nature with a beautiful stroke of white, but yet its freezing temperature can kill you in a matter of hours. Plants die beneath its weight and cold; food is scarce, if available at all. Yet every time the white powder falls, it smites people with its beauty. They cannot wait to prance around in it. Even in these modern times, people forget that they can be doomed with one power outage.
That day I was a storyteller and no one's guardian; some of the people left. Some went out and pranced about in the snow. I was lucky that Brandy, my young friend, listened contently to my tale.
