It was mid-July – it should’ve been 80 outside, instead it felt more like 50. Glistening Icicles hung from the twisted branches of Mr Ebdon’s Apple Blossom tree. Sun-beaten kids used to dusty, humid summers pelted each other with powdery, white snowballs.
The crackling transistor in the kitchen announced the main road to Franksville was now blocked: the whole midwest had been thrown back into winter.
As the day darkened the flakes continued to fall – heavier with each fresh, frozen flurry. Nobody seemed that worried, most just fooled around. But I was worried: this meant something, and I was sure it weren’t something good.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.