Chill Weather Quotes

Best friends are together through it all. Like soil & roots. One needing the other through chilling winters, scorching summers, through hailstorms & lightning Strikes. They weather it together.

He grimaced and went after her. “I’m not a trainer. Just spent a lot of time working out.”  “Misspent youth, clearly.” She held the door open, standing just outside.  “My application to princess school was rejected.” Callan exited the building and fell into step alongside her. “Working out was how I coped.” Sunlight peeked out from behind striped clouds and lit the early-morning sky. Autumn weather chilled the perspiration on his skin.  “Such a shame.” Meridian glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye.  “What is?”  “That you didn’t go to princess school. Could have learned some manners.” Her blue-green eyes sparked in the sunlight. And her mouth . . . Her lips set in some smart-looking, lopsided grin, with a small dimple.  I should definitely kiss that look off her face. “Overrated. Inefficient. And I look terrible in a tiara.

Quiet people often have a weather sense that loud people lack. They feel the wind-changes of conversations, and shiver in the chill of unspoken resentments.

..."I can always stuff you back in the bottle and shove a tampon in the top instead of a stopper, and all the other Djinn will point and laugh-

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.

Follow my finger." He moved it around, tracking my eye movements. "Any blurred vision?" "Well I think I'm hallucinating, because I see a big talking pile of crap." - Joanne Baldwin.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely and Scrooge never did.

As I was smoothing on the last handful across the top of my thigh, I noticed I had company. Lewus was standing there watching me, eyes half-closed but not in the least sleepy. He'd put on his blue jeans, but nothing else... very sexy. I couldn't help but take in the view.

No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.

When the pretty birds break your heart and disappear, be brave and strong through the chilly night weather. Just look around you and learn from Mother Nature. Be like the tree that, despite its fallen leaves, endures the chill of winter, holding on for the warm spring sunshine and the bright summer.

It was a bright spring morning, full of promise. Most travelers are familiar with this kind of weather- when the wind blows westward and warm but the ground still chills the soles of your feet, when the tree buds have begun to unfurl and scent the air with secret springtime madness- and they know those days are made for leaving.

Can we agree to a decent working rapport, here? Because I really don't have time for this, and I can always stuff you back in the bottle and shove a tampon in the top instead of a stopper, and all the other Djinn will point and laugh—

Winter crept over Nin stealthily, like a great white cat made of chill mists and sharp-edged winds.

~A Comparison of Seasons~ Snow's unforgiving power causes some men to wish for spring's flower. Some might hate snow's bitter chill, but you love it at your own will. I see snow as something fun, but others might still long for summer's sun. You and I hate summer's heat, but we still love the warmth of a fire on our feet. Spring has jays whose virtuous songs are nice, but winter's lonely echoes are earth's frigged vice. I enjoy spring's life, yet I still love winter's seemingly harsh sorrow; sometimes I can't get out of the house, so I worry about tomorrow. I love the sight of snow and I treasure the sight of summer's river which swiftly flows. Also, winter can be cold, but we can look forward to seeing spring's life and joy unfold.

A disrespectful young woman...something I was called more than once. Something ever woman of quality is called sooner or later, by a man who feels they do not know their place. As we do not, because our place is as lofty as we may aspire to climb. It is the language of men who fear women.

The moon grew plump and pale as a peeled apple, waned into the passing nights, then showed itself again as a thin silver crescent in the twilit western sky. The shed of leaves became a cascade of red and gold and after a time the trees stood skeletal against a sky of weathered tin. The land lay bled of its colors. The nights lengthened, went darker, brightened in their clustered stars. The chilled air smelled of woodsmoke, of distances and passing time. Frost glimmered on the morning fields. Crows called across the pewter afternoons. The first hard freeze cast the countryside in ice and trees split open with sounds like whipcracks. Came a snow flurry one night and then a heavy falling the next day, and that evening the land lay white and still under a high ivory moon.

David was holding Mona steady. I hoped he also had a little attention to spare to keep us unnoticed from the ground; seeing a Dodge Viper do a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in the desert sky might be a little hard to explain, even for UFO nuts.

When crew and captain understand each other to the core, It takes a gale and more than a gale to put their ship ashore; For the one will do what the other commands, although they are chilled to the bone; And both together can live through weather that neither could face alone. KIPLING

In the early summer of 1846 he moved his family to a cottage in Fordham, which was then far out in the country. He was ill and Virginia was dying, so that he was in no condition to do much work. As a result, their meagre income vanished; when winter game they even lacked money to buy fuel. A friend who visited the cottage wrote a description of Virginia's plight: There was no clothing on the bed... but a snow white spread and sheets. The weather was cold, and the sick lady had the dreadful chills that accompany the hectic fever of consumption. She lay on the straw bed, wrapped in her husband's great-coat, with a large tortoise-shell cat on her bosom. The wonderful cat seemed conscious of her great usefulness. The coat and the cat were the sufferer's only means of warmth... A public appeal for funds was made in the newspapers -- an act which Poe, of course, resented. But Virginia was beyond all human aid. She died on January 30, 1847, and her death marked the end of the sanest period in her husband's life. He plunged into the writing of a book-length mystical and pseudo-scientific work entitled Eureka, in which he set forth his theories of the universe. He intended it as a prose poem, and as such is should be judged, rather than as a scientific explanation of matters beyond it's author's ken.

She felt their time together shrinking at an alarming rate. A few days in this room on this barge, and then they would go their separate ways, and she would have to face her mess of a life, and figure out what to do next. But mostly, she would miss him. A chill rolled over her not, not from the wet weather outside, but from a panic that made her stomach hurt. She pasted on a smile, which she realize was wasted on him.

I open the door to the car and the burst of cold air comes barreling through. The wind has picked up, which makes it seem a hell of a lot colder. I think that might be why weather people always talk about wind-chill factor.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather

Alma knelt in the tall grass and brought her face as near as she could to the stone. And there, rising no more than an inch above the surface of the boulder, she saw a great and tiny forest. Nothing moved within this mossy world. She peered at it so closely that she could smell it- dank and rich and old. Gently, Alma pressed her hand into this tight little timberland. It compacted itself under her palm and then sprang back to form without complaint. There was something stirring about its response to her. The moss felt warm and spongy, several degrees warmer than the air around it, and far more damp than she had expected. It appeared to have its own weather. Alma put the magnifying lens to her eye and looked again. Now the miniature forest below her gaze sprang into majestic detail. She felt her breath catch. This was a stupefying kingdom. This was the Amazon jungle as seen from the back of a harpy eagle. She rode her eye above the surprising landscape, following its paths in every direction. Here were rich, abundant valleys filled with tiny trees of braided mermaid hair and minuscule, tangled vines. Here were barely visible tributaries running through that jungle, and here was a miniature ocean in a depression in the center of the boulder, where all the water pooled. Just across this ocean- which was half the size of Alma's shawl- she found another continent of moss altogether. On this new continent, everything was different. This corner of the boulder must receive more sunlight than the other, she surmised. Or slightly less rain? In any case, this was a new climate entirely. Here, the moss grew in mountain ranges the length of Alma's arms, in elegant, pine tree-shaped clusters of darker, more somber green. On another quadrant of the same boulder still, she found patches of infinitesimally small deserts, inhabited by some kind of sturdy, dry, flaking moss that had the appearance of cactus. Elsewhere, she found deep, diminutive fjords- so deep that, incredibly, even now in the month of June- the mosses within were still chilled by lingering traces of winter ice. But she also found warm estuaries, miniature cathedrals, and limestone caves the size of her thumb. Then Alma lifted her face and saw what was before her- dozens more such boulders, more than she could count, each one similarly carpeted, each one subtly different. She felt herself growing breathless. 'This was the entire world.' This was bigger than a world. This was the firmament of the universe, as seen through one of William Herschel's mighty telescopes. This was planetary and vast. These were ancient, unexplored galaxies, rolling forth in front of her- and it was all right here!

In real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands. In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day. I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man. My fat keeps me hot in zero weather. I can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing; I can eat pork liver cooked over the open fire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog. One winter I knocked a bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill before nightfall.

He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots. The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing in his first match after weeks of training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the House Championship. Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry didn’t know which was worse — people telling him he’d be brilliant or people telling him they’d be running around underneath him holding a mattress. It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn’t know how he’d have gotten through all his homework without her, what with all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a very interesting read.

We may achieve climate, but weather is thrust upon us. Santone, then, cannot be blamed for this cold gray fog that came and kissed the lips of the three thousand, and then delivered them to the cross. That night the tubercles, whose ravages hope holds in check, multiplied. The writhing fingers of the pale mist did not go thence bloodless. Many of the wooers of ozone capitulated with the enemy that night, turning their faces to the wall in that dumb, isolated apathy that so terrifies their watchers. On the red stream of Hemorrhagia a few souls drifted away, leaving behind pathetic heaps, white and chill as the fog itself. Two or three came to view this atmospheric wraith as the ghost of impossible joys, sent to whisper to them of the egregious folly it is to inhale breath into the lungs, only to exhale it again, and these used whatever came handy to their relief, pistols, gas or the beneficent muriate. - A Fog in Santone (1898-1901)

Grief is funny like that, how it ebbs and flows from you, it’s not corked like champagne, a bottle that bursts open, fizzes all out until it’s empty. It’s more like a kind of weather. A kind of wind. Sometimes it’s these horrible gusts that you feel undeniably, hurts your ears, makes you close your eyes, chills you right down to your bones, some days it’s a pleasant breeze that blows across your face and it’s neither sad or bad, it’s just some kind of unspeakable tenderness. Some days you feel no breeze, that’s started happening to me—I don’t know how I feel about it yet—not that I don’t think of her, I sort of think I’ll think of her every day for forever, but more that, when I do, it doesn’t necessarily feel like someone’s dropping a crystal vase inside my chest. That’s not to say I don’t still have days where I’m a glassware shop situated somewhere along the San Andreas Fault and there’s an earthquake and things are falling and breaking everywhere, but there was a time where every day felt like the big one California’s waiting for—just total demolition. I suppose it doesn’t feel like total destruction anymore.

The shed of leaves became a cascade of red and gold and after a time the trees stood skeletal against a sky of weathered tin. The land lay bled of its colors. The nights lengthened, went darker, brightened in their clustered stars. The chilled air smelled of woodsmoke, of distances and passing time. Frost glimmered on the morning fields. Crows called across the pewter afternoons.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

By early September, the plague has run its course and the family is able to gather to pray for Liz. Now she can have the ceremonies that were denied her when she left them so suddenly. Black coats are given to twelve poor men of the parish, the same mourners who would have followed her coffin; and each man in the family has pledged seven years of Masses for her soul. On the day appointed, the weather clears briefly, and there is a chill in the air. ‘The harvest is passed, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.

Yet when God entered time and became a man, he who was boundless became bound. Imprisoned in flesh. Restricted by weary-prone muscles and eyelids. For more than three decades, his once limitless reach would be limited to the stretch of an arm, his speed checked to the pace of human feet. I wonder, was he ever tempted to regain his boundlessness? In the middle of a long trip, did he ever consider transporting himself to the next city? When the rain chilled his bones, was he tempted to change the weather? When the heat parched his lips, did he give thought to popping over to the Caribbean for some refreshment? If he ever entertained such thoughts, he never gave into them. Not once. Stop and think about this. Not once did Christ use his supernatural powers for personal comfort. With one word, he could've transformed the hard earth into a soft bed, but he didn't. With a wave of his hands, he could've boomeranged the spit of his accusers back into their faces, but he didn't. With an arch of his brow, he could've paralyzed the hand of the soldier as he braided the crown of thorns. But he didn't.

The night was blustery and raw, with a chill wet wind blowing down the avenues, and when Rose and I met Françoise and her son and a friend at La Lorraine, a glittering brassiere not far from L'Étoile, rain was descending from the heavens in torrents. Someone in the group, sensing my state of mind, apologized for the evil night, but I recall thinking that even if this were one of those warmly scented and passionate evenings for which Paris is celebrated I would respond like the zombie I had become. The weather of depression is unmodulated, its light a brownout.

I do love Oregon." My gaze wanders over the quiet, natural beauty surrounding us, which isn't limited to just this garden. "Being near the river, and the ocean, and the rocky mountains, and all this nature ... the weather." He chuckles. "I've never met anyone who actually loves rain. It's kind of weird. But cool, too," he adds quickly, as if afraid to offend me. "I just don't get it." I shrug. "It's not so much that I love rain. I just have a healthy respect for what if does. People hate it, but the world needs rain. It washes away dirt, dilutes the toxins in the air, feeds drought. It keeps everything around us alive." "Well, I have a healthy respect for what the sun does," he counters with a smile." "I'd rather have the sun after a good, hard rainfall." He just shakes his head at me but he's smiling. "The good with the bad?" "Isn't that life?" He frowns. "Why do I sense a metaphor behind that?" "Maybe there is a metaphor behind that." One I can't very well explain to him without describing the kinds of things I see every day in my life. The underbelly of society - where twisted morals reign and predators lurk, preying on the lost, the broken, the weak, the innocent. Where a thirteen-year-old sells her body rather than live under the same roof as her abusive parents, where punks gang-rape a drunk girl and then post pictures of it all over the internet so the world can relive it with her. Where a junkie mom's drug addiction is readily fed while her children sit back and watch. Where a father is murdered bacause he made the mistake of wanting a van for his family. In that world, it seems like it's raining all the time. A cold, hard rain that seeps into clothes, chills bones, and makes people feel utterly wretched. Many times, I see people on the worst day of their lives, when they feel like they're drowing. I don't enjoy seeing people suffer. I just know that if they make good choices, and accept the right help, they'll come out of it all the stronger for it. What I do enjoy comes after. Three months later, when I see that thirteen-year-old former prostitute pushing a mower across the front lawn of her foster home, a quiet smile on her face. Eight months later, when I see the girl who was raped walking home from school with a guy who wants nothing from her but to make her laugh. Two years later, when I see the junkie mom clean and sober and loading a shopping cart for the kids that the State finally gave back to her. Those people have seen the sun again after the harshest rain, and they appreciate it so much more.

wind whirled the fallen leaves and discarded trash littering the entrance to the old water park. As a young man approached the looming gate, an eerie chill snaked down his spine. “This place is creepy as hell,” he muttered, shining his flashlight on the weathered sign. “You sure you want to do this?” The young woman who had coerced him into coming out here ripped the lid from the plastic bucket she was holding. “Dr. Cooper needs to take notice that the students of Ashmore College are not going to stand for this new research facility of his. You heard how smug he sounded at the protest tonight. He thinks he can get away with anything just because his mother is president of the college. Someone has

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self contained and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely; and Scrooge never did.

Ryder turns off the radio and reaches for my camera, pointing it at me in the dark. It beeps, and a red light indicates that he’s filming. “Are you scared, Jemma?” I prop my head up on one elbow. “Yeah, I’m scared,” I say, carefully weighing my words. “But…we’ll be okay. This house has weathered plenty of storms through the years. It’ll keep us safe.” “I hope you’re right.” “Yeah, me too.” I hear him swallow hard. “I’m glad I’m here with you.” “I’m glad you are too,” I say automatically. But then…I realize with a start that it’s true. I am glad he’s here. I feel safe with him. More relaxed than I would be otherwise. He thinks I’m distracting him, making him forget his fears. But the truth is, he’s helping me just as much. Maybe more. I’m pretty sure I’d be a blubbering mess right about now if I were alone. “Thanks, Ryder,” I say, my voice thick. “For what?” “Everything.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Turn off the camera, okay?” He does, setting it aside before stretching out on the far side of the bed, facing me. Our gazes meet, and my stomach flutters nervously. There’s something there in his dark eyes, something I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability…mixed with a kind of dark, melty chocolate expression that I don’t recognize. Our hands are lying there on the bed between us, nearly touching. I lift my pinkie, brushing it against his. Chills race down my spine at the contact, my heart pounding against my ribs. I hear his breath catch. Slowly, his hand moves over mine, his fingertips brushing my knuckles until his entire hand covers mine. His skin is hot, the pressure reassuring. A minute passes, maybe two. It’s almost like he’s waiting, watching to see if I pull my hand away. I don’t. In one quick movement, he slides his hand under mine and threads our fingers together. We lie like that for several minutes, arms outstretched, hands joined, eyes wide open. The storm continues to rage around us, but it’s like we’re locked in this safe, calm place where nothing can touch us. My breathing slows; my limbs grow heavy. My lids flutter shut. I try to resist, but it’s futile. I’m exhausted. I drift off to sleep with a smile on my lips, Ryder holding me fast.

The traditional hospital practice of excluding parents ignored the importance of attachment relationships as regulators of the child’s emotions, behaviour and physiology. The child’s biological status would be vastly different under the circumstances of parental presence or absence. Her neurochemical output, the electrical activity in her brain’s emotional centres, her heart rate, blood pressure and the serum levels of the various hormones related to stress would all vary significantly. Life is possible only within certain well-defined limits, internal or external. We can no more survive, say, high sugar levels in our bloodstream than we can withstand high levels of radiation emanating from a nuclear explosion. The role of self-regulation, whether emotional or physical, may be likened to that of a thermostat ensuring that the temperature in a home remains constant despite the extremes of weather conditions outside. When the environment becomes too cold, the heating system is switched on. If the air becomes overheated, the air conditioner begins to work. In the animal kingdom, self-regulation is illustrated by the capacity of the warm-blooded creature to exist in a broad range of environments. It can survive more extreme variations of hot and cold without either chilling or overheating than can a coldblooded species. The latter is restricted to a much narrower range of habitats because it does not have the capacity to self-regulate the internal environment. Children and infant animals have virtually no capacity for biological self-regulation; their internal biological states—heart rates, hormone levels, nervous system activity — depend completely on their relationships with caregiving grown-ups. Emotions such as love, fear or anger serve the needs of protecting the self while maintaining essential relationships with parents and other caregivers. Psychological stress is whatever threatens the young creature’s perception of a safe relationship with the adults, because any disruption in the relationship will cause turbulence in the internal milieu. Emotional and social relationships remain important biological influences beyond childhood. “Independent self-regulation may not exist even in adulthood,” Dr. Myron Hofer, then of the Departments of Psychiatry and Neuroscience at Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York, wrote in 1984. “Social interactions may continue to play an important role in the everyday regulation of internal biologic systems throughout life.” Our biological response to environmental challenge is profoundly influenced by the context and by the set of relationships that connect us with other human beings. As one prominent researcher has expressed it most aptly, “Adaptation does not occur wholly within the individual.” Human beings as a species did not evolve as solitary creatures but as social animals whose survival was contingent on powerful emotional connections with family and tribe. Social and emotional connections are an integral part of our neurological and chemical makeup. We all know this from the daily experience of dramatic physiological shifts in our bodies as we interact with others. “You’ve burnt the toast again,” evokes markedly different bodily responses from us, depending on whether it is shouted in anger or said with a smile. When one considers our evolutionary history and the scientific evidence at hand, it is absurd even to imagine that health and disease could ever be understood in isolation from our psychoemotional networks. “The basic premise is that, like other social animals, human physiologic homeostasis and ultimate health status are influenced not only by the physical environment but also by the social environment.” From such a biopsychosocial perspective, individual biology, psychological functioning and interpersonal and social relationships work together, each influencing the other.

Hoot, the odds are good that we’re going to locate bones, and that’ll be all that’s left of those ladies who had futures, dreams, and people who loved them. Now, can you look at the faces in those pictures and still whine about a little bad weather? Hmm?

OH, NIETZSCHE The last Christmas Eve of the nineteenth century was very cold Piercing winds and snow stuffed themselves into the cracks of every door and window As professors of philosophy gathered in the Golden Hall Their nonsense and hollow academic jargon were winning applause Feeling a chill, professors furrowed their brows And refined ladies unconsciously pulled their collars closed No one paid attention to the chill, no one even responded But the howling wind outside the window Swept across Europe’s wide sky Outside, Nietzsche was wandering around in the wilderness His thoughts were accompanied by the snowy winds and howls of wolves In this frozen world his thoughts shed their skin again and again Like a bloody struggle to be free of incorporeal chains He relentlessly pursued the truth No one could understand his eccentric and arrogant disposition No one could answer his disdain for this world For only a blizzard of manuscripts accompanied him Weathered by a tormenting disease Nietzsche bitterly suffered from his solitary meditation His discontent with thoughts surged like gales blowing the heavy snow Sweeping the sky and earth with a wild fervor What a pure yet brutal world At that moment the bells of a new century were ringing The generation of heroes Nietzsche called “supermen” From “Martin Eden” penned by Jack London To the old man who went fishing with Hemingway Have already shocked the whole world Through so many sleepless nights he endured the torture of disease Yet nurtured the poetic longing of solitude and indifference An infant thought undergoes the trauma of birth To finally cry out in an earth-shattering voice Nietzsche, before the sunrise changed the world The entire sky shimmered with your incandescent thoughts The nearly extinguished candle was burning your final passion Nietzsche, oh Nietzsche, let us walk on together

The Feline Chill by Stewart Stafford The feline parries morning's biting kiss That turbulently gooses the hedgerows The cat barometer turns back inside To relax and preen by the hearth. Gusts howl at the blasé abandonment Our whiskered friend deaf to protests Domestic tiger curled in busy routine Single-minded creature of no reflection. The storm's symphony rises and fades To twitching limbs of galloping kitty dreams Elements vanquished in slumbering tricks Puss goes and stands by the door once more. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

No,” Cecelia shakes her head furiously, demand in her deep blues. “Sorry, you can’t go, Dominic, because I dreamed your future up for you. Hang on, and I’ll tell you all about it.” Staring up and into the soul of the woman worth warring over—who gave me a glimpse of heaven on earth, aware of just how much power her love holds—I again curse the fucking fate that allowed it to be taken from me. But just as that thought drifts in, what I thought I’d been robbed of is gifted in the way it always has been, through her, because it was never about the weather, time, or place. Whoosh . . . Whoosh . . . Whoosh . . . Her warmth engulfs me. The atmosphere shifting as tumultuous storm clouds gather in her eyes, and her rain begins to pelt me—all burden lifting, along with any remnants of anger. A bone-deep chill sweeps through my body as the pain abates, and her turbulent blues pierce and hook me, sweeping me away.

Sometimes, I lean out my split-pane window that seems to be high off the ground, and I can hear the whistling wind stream through the leaves of the growth of trees, sometimes this reminds me about being in the garden and golden fields when my eyes are closed. But, when my eyes were open, I realized that it is just the wind rushing through the various hills and valleys of ‘The Land of Many Steeples.’ I do not know what it is… but there is just something about letting your hair blow in the breeze, which feels so amazing. I feel that it is just one of the amazing moments in time, which I have experienced. Oh, just the same can be said, about me standing in the rain, freely and naturally on a warm spring day, while I am filling the ground squish under my toes. Yes, likewise can be said for the winters when I come home from the hellhole, and see the fireplace with its warm glow, from outside the frost chilled arched windows of the tort section of the house that is part of the dwelling. ‘It is amazing also because I know that I will soon be warm and comfortable, and out of this uniform that labels me as one of them.’ In the wintertime, the snowdrifts, the pointed part of the roof along with the weathervane are covered in a blanket of white, ‘The Land of Many Steeples’ sparkles, and soft with an almost spooky light blue cast in the moonlight. The trees down the lane drip with ice like a crystal cave, but- yet we all carve a pathway down the road that leads to the hell and then back to the emptiness. Snow days are rare, but that does not matter to me either way because I cannot truly share it with anyone it seems, as you all know. So, would you be my friend if I asked you? Would you spend some time with me? Can I depend on you; I would be there for you! So, on any day in any weather condition, unless the fog is rising from the valley, I can see in the distance ‘The Land of Many Steeples’, a far cry from this country land, where the dwelling of lost and lonely dreams is upon. Then there are some days there are thunderstorms outside my window, and it takes me back to the past, like when I was in that dark room. I do not think anyone gets over their past, the past that haunts me, and a past that the tower uses against me. Yes, you can change your name. Change your hair, and change your style, but the words of slander will remain. The only thing I can do is find someone that does not care about what the words mean or say, or just plainly pray for it to all go away.

Now that the weather had turned more chill, he could cheerfully—or what passed as cheerfully in Nate-adjusted terms—pile on oversized sweaters and baggy cords and scarves until he was a moving pile of natural and synthetic fibers.

It’s the way the fog still rises, on chill and rotten nights. Some people think it’s just weather, but my granddaddy always said it was her: Eleanor Starling, whittled down to nothing but malice and mist, still thirsty for Gravely blood, haunting the town that still hates her.

Whatever it is that you and Tom are keeping from me… it has to do with how much I mean to you,” he said, shifting so that Baltsaros’s hand had space to slip between fabric and flesh. He let out an exhale that ended on a chuckle when the captain’s chilled fingers closed over the head of his cock. “Fuck, that’s cold. I can’t wait for warmer weather,” laughed Jon. Leaning

Might as well rest the horses,” St. Just said, nudging his beast out of the middle of the beaten path. “Westhaven, can you dismount?” “I cannot. My backside is permanently frozen to the saddle; my ability to reproduce is seriously jeopardized.” “Anna will be desolated.” St. Just waited while Westhaven swung down, then whistled at an urchin shivering in the door to a nearby church. “We’ll just get the feeling back into our feet, and the saddles will be chilled sufficiently to threaten even your lusty inclination.” Westhaven led his horse to the side of the street, such as it was. “Cold weather makes Emmie frisky.” St. Just assayed his signature grin. “We have a deal of cold weather up in the West Riding, so I’ve learned to appreciate it. Let’s at least find a tot of grog while Baby Brother sees to his precious violin.” “The

In the dark, when night’s chill cuts Cold as death they climb the hill Breaking door and windowpane They come to burn, slash, and kill. Shadows pounding on the door They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. Waves they crash upon the bow Of withered ship at sea Wind and weather rip the sails There’s little hope for thee. Shadows pounding on the hull They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. Within darkling wood you walk So foolish after all Footsteps follow, catching up You run until you fall. Shadows pounding on the path They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. When man stood upon the brink Novron saved us all Sent by god above he was In answer to our call. Shadows pounding on the gate They beat the drums so near If your faith’s in Maribor He’s with you, never fear.

Suddenly the enormity of it crashed down on me . . .

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The climate has been changing throughout history. Has man caused all these historical fluctuations in weather? No, of course not; but global warming alarmists want to make you feel responsible for natural cycles that have gone on for forever, and you need to know this is basically a moneymaker for some of them. In a way, global warming—or climate change as they now call it, to cover all their bases—is a pseudoscientific fad that comes complete with massive government grants and university research support for scientists, power and big budgets for bureaucrats, and a feel-good crusade for politicians. It’s an unholy combination that has left truth and common sense behind. With all the problems mankind has caused in this world, and all the deadly threats people currently face, claims that climate change is our number one threat, as the alarmists want you to believe, are downright ludicrous. Moreover, the idea that government can “fix” our future weather patterns doesn’t pass the straight-face test. Whatever government does in regulating power and siphoning off zillions of tax dollars for uneconomic, inefficient “green energy” projects will, according to some experts, chill our climate by less than two-hundredths of a degree Celsius over the course of a hundred years! And there is evidence, by the way, that our planet is entering a cooling trend anyway because of reduced solar flares and sunspot activity. What the government’s draconian regulations will actually achieve is not a healthier climate but scarcer and higher-cost energy, fewer jobs, a weaker economy, and a less secure America.

Day by day as autumn tanned the valley around us, now with bright frost weather, now with rain carrying the first chill of winter, my father stayed in the dusk of his grief. That sandbagged mood, I understand now, can only have been a kind of battle fatigue-the senses blasted around in him by that morning of death and the thousands of inflicting minutes it was followed by.

Although the extra clothing staves off the chill weather, it can’t protect me from the cold dread turning my legs to lead.

On the other end of the porch the swing creaked pleasantly on its chains. This was the time of home-night he enjoyed, when his wife was inside asleep and he, at last, was alone. Time of year he enjoyed, too, the kind of peaceable weather you needed sleeves for but not a coat, chill in the air to make your scalp tingle but not set you to shivering.

A tray of drinks was brought out, with pastis for the men and chilled, sweet muscat wine for the women, and we were caught in a crossfire of noisy complaints about the weather. Was it as bad as this in England? Only in the summer, I said.

Reptile eggs are easily damaged. The parchment in which they are wrapped — which allows adults to breed away from open water — is not wholly impervious. In a dry atmosphere, it would allow so much liquid to escape that the contents of the egg would desiccate, and the embryo die. The eggs are also killed if they overheat or are seriously chilled. All lizards, therefore, take great care about where they place their eggs. Many species of monitors bury them at the end of long tunnels. Some, however, including the perentie, have discovered a way of providing their eggs with an environment that remains at exactly the same temperature and humidity whatever the weather-and without any effort whatsoever on the part of the females. They lay their eggs inside a termite nest.

Here in England, our night-jar is but a summer migrant, a visitor to the moors while insects abound; and we listen for him eagerly in warm May weather. He comes to us from South Africa, where he winters among the Zulus, or, rather, escapes the chill of winter altogether in the opposite hemisphere. For he must have insects, flying insects on the wing, and plenty of them. We welcome his first churring among the pines and bracken as a sign of summer; for he is a prudent bird, and seldom makes a mistake, knowing the marks of the weather well,

porkchop he sat down and enjoyed the cool evening air. The sun had almost set now, and it was getting properly dark. “Maybe I could sleep out in the open tonight,” he thought. The weather was warm and the idea of looking up at the stars all night appealed to him. Then he heard a noise that chilled his soul. “BURRRRRR!!!

troubled, Alfred Allsworth (Fred) Thorp, Sheriff of Okanogan County approached the Lute Morris Saloon in Conconully Monday morning, November 9, 1909. Inside, a hard-looking stranger of medium height, with black hair and a mustache, who gave his name as Frank LeRoy, was playing cards at a table. Sheriff Thorp intended to question LeRoy regarding a safe blown in the A.C. Gillespie & Son store in Brewster a few days earlier and two residential burglaries in Brewster. A mild mannered Iowa farmer, Thorp came to the Okanogan in 1900, carried mail between Chesaw and Loomis, ran for sheriff. Armed with a six-shooter, Thorp feared only that some day, he might have to kill someone, which would compel him to resign, and this might be the day. LeRoy sat very still, watching the frontier sheriff approach the card table. “I’ll have to take you in, partner.” said Thorp. There must have been an unearthly silence in the saloon as LeRoy rose. Thorp drew his revolver, “I’m going to search you.” LeRoy turned as if to throw off his coat, and then jerked a pistol from a shoulder holster. The two opened fire simultaneously LeRoy dancing about to present an elusive target. LeRoy got off four shots. Thorp emptied his revolver, striking LeRoy’s right hand, causing him to drop his gun, and hitting the suspect in the shoulder as he bolted out a rear door. LeRoy staggered a few yards up Salmon Creek before hiding in some brush. “Look out, he’s got another gun” someone yelled from across the creek. Having borrowed a second revolver, the sheriff pounced, kicking LeRoy’s gun from his hand. LeRoy was rolled onto a piece of barn board and carried into the Elliot Hotel. There his wounds, including a punctured lung were treated. In LeRoy’s hotel room Thorp found two more guns, wedges and drills, and a supply of nitroglycerine. Two days later, LeRoy broke out of the county jail. Wearing only his nightshirt, a blanket for trousers, shoes and an old mackinaw taken from an elderly trusty who served as jailer, the desperado flew through chilling weather to Okanogan. Three days later, Thorp caught up with him in a fleld of sagebrush below Malott. LeRoy came out with his hands up commenting mildly he wished he had a gun so the two could shoot it out again. In January, 1910, at Conconully LeRoy was convicted of burglarizing the William Plemmon’s home at Brewster. Since this was his third burglary conviction, he was sentenced to life imprisonment in the state penitentiary at Walla Walla as a habitual criminal. After serving nine years, LeRoy, in ill health, was released in 1919. He once met Fred Thorp on a street in Spokane. They chatted for a few minutes. While there were, in pioneer times, numerous other confrontations between armed men, the Thorp-LeRoy gun flght probably was the closest Okanogan County ever came to a HIGH NOON shootout.

outdoors in winter in most parts of the country, as long as they have adequate shelter from wind, rain, and snow. A shed open on one side is an ideal shelter for all seasons. Horses grow a long winter coat and store a layer of fat beneath their skin, both of which provide excellent insulation. However, when a horse is kept in a heated stable, he does not adapt and is more likely to suffer from chilling and pneumonia when taken outside. Horse blankets can be used to prevent chilling. For a horse in winter with a dry coat, or one who is used to being inside, the blanket is beneficial when the wind-chill temperature drops below 20°F (-6.6°C). For a horse in summer with a wet coat, wind-chill discomfort becomes a factor at temperatures below 60°F (15.5°C). Use common sense. If your horse has adapted to outside conditions, he probably does not need a blanket. However, for old horses, who are unable to regulate their body temperature well, or show horses without their natural haircoat, a blanket is a thing of comfort. Digestible energy is the principal dietary concern in cold weather. Protein, vitamin, and mineral needs increase slightly. In winter, it is important to feed a ration that helps the horse create internal heat. High-quality hay is best for this, and is a better choice than grain. This is because roughage is digested by bacterial fermentation in the cecum and colon, which produces a great deal of heat.

tree. How she feels enslaved of herself, then exposed suddenly, to the plummeting temperature. Weather’s self-indulgent caprice chills her body.

Time passed fast and I was coming out from the reputed engineering college at last after the same Professor had intervened with the college authority for holding the examination in spite of political troubles, prevailing during seventies in Calcutta. The sprawling complex of the university would suddenly vanish from my view. I would be missing the chirping of the birds in early morning, view of green grass of the football field right in front of our building, badly mauled by the students and pedestrians who used to cut short their journey moving across the field, whistling of steam trains passing parallel to the backside of boundary wall of our building, stentorian voice of our Professors, ever smiling and refreshing faces of the learned Professors every day. I would definitely miss the opportunity of gossiping on a bench by the lake side with other students, not to speak of your girlfriend with whom you would try to be cozy with to keep yourself warm when the chilling breeze, which put roses in girls’ cheeks but made sinuses ache, cut across you in its journey towards the open field during winter. The charm of walking along the lonely streets proscribed for outsiders and bowing occasionally when you meet the Professors of repute, music and band for the generation of ear deafening sound - both symphony and cacophony, on Saturdays and Sundays in the auditorium, rhythmic sound of machines in the workshop, hurly-burly of laughter of my friends, talks, cries at the top of  their lunges in the canteen and sudden departures of all from the canteen on hearing the ding-dong sound of the big bell hung in the administration building indicating the end of the period would no longer be there. The street fighting of two groups of students on flimsy grounds and passionate speeches of the students during debate competition would no longer be audible. Shaking of long thin pine trees violently by the storm flowing across these especially during summer, shouting and gesticulation of students’ union members while moving around the campus for better amenities or administration, getting caught with friends all around with revolvers in hand during the violent Naxalite movement, hiding in the toilet in canteen to avoid beating by police personnel, dropping of mangoes from a mango tree which spread its wings in all directions during the five years we were in the college near our building and running together by us to pick the green/ripe mangoes as fast as possible defying inclement weather and rain etc. were simply irresistible. The list was endless. I was going to miss very much the competition among us regarding number of mangoes we could collect for our few girlfriends whom we wanted to impress! I

Where do snowmen check their email? A: On the winternet! Q: What do snowmen call their kids? A: Chill-dren! Q: What is an earthquake’s favorite song? A: Shake, rattle, and roll! Q: What is it called when it is raining pennies? A: Change in the weather!

The default posture of Generation X has always been to trash the boomers. The boomers were yuppie sellouts, sanctimonious blowhards, fair-weather hippies who joined the establishment as soon as they realized the upsides to having health insurance and retirement accounts (see: backstories of Big Chill characters and Hope and Michael et al.). They did tons of drugs and had tons of sex and then left us to trudge through the AIDS and crack epidemics they left in their wake. If you were a young writer in the 1990s, as I was, you could find a steady stream of magazine work composing irony-laden rants about how much the boomers had screwed over the Xers—economically, culturally, sexually-transmitted-diseasedly, et cetera. In the span of a few years, I wrote no fewer than fifteen articles that were essentially some variation on “broken homes ruined our belief in marriage, MTV ruined our attention spans, and AIDS ruined our sex lives. Our world and the baby boomers’ world are many galaxies apart.

Despite all the solo vocals, each using the others as a back-up group, the White Album still sounds haunted by memories of friendship—that “dreamlike state” they could still zoom into hearing each other sing. They translated Rishikesh into their own style of English pagan pastoral—so many talking animals, so many changes in the weather. One of my favorite British songwriters, Luke Haines from the Auteurs and Black Box Recorder, once told me in an interview that his band was making “our Wicker Man album.” He was miffed I had no idea what he meant. “You can’t understand British bands without seeing The Wicker Man. Every British band makes its Wicker Man album.” So I rented the classic 1973 Hammer horror film, and had creepy dreams about rabbits for months, but he’s right, and the White Album is the Beatles’ Wicker Man album five years before The Wicker Man, a rustic retreat where nature seems dark and depraved in a primal English sing-cuckoo way. They also spruced up their acoustic guitar chops in India, learning folkie fingerpicking techniques from fellow pilgrim Donovan, giving the songs some kind of ancient mystic chill.

Wow, it’s getting cold. I was prepared for the fifty-degree weather, but the wind chill is killing me.

In 2012, the Royal Society—the UK’s national academy of science—declared refrigeration the most important invention in the history of food and drink. Judged in terms of its impact on a range of criteria, including productivity and health, refrigeration was deemed more significant than the knife, the oven, the plow, and even the millennia of selective breeding that gave us the livestock, fruits, and vegetables we recognize today. It is also a much more recent development: our ancestors learned to control fire before modern humans even evolved, but our ability to command cold at will dates back little more than 150 years. Mechanical cooling—refrigeration produced by human artifice, as opposed to the natural chill offered by weather-dependent snow and ice—wasn’t achieved until the mid-1700s, it wasn’t commercialized until the late 1800s, and it wasn’t domesticated until the 1920s.

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