A short story was running
through the woods. She was on her way to grandma’s house. Her motivations were
unclear, but her mood was not. Neither was the tone of her chipper whistling.
The trees of the forest were like columns of brown marble
holding the sky. Carved inside the side of each of the trees were tall figures
stretched to the wildest proportions possible.
A thick and tall man stumbled from the woods with a
leather coat wrapped around his blockish body. “Little girl. You cannot go into
the forest alone. You need to take a magic sword, or otherwise you will be
attacked by ghosts,” the man said.
“No time,” the short story said. She didn’t have time for
talking, because she had to continue forward at a rapid pace.
Clouds appeared overhead, quickly impregnated by hot
white lightning. In a flash they broke water, hindering the girl. She was lost,
but she was never alone. The cold came closer to her, attempting to strangle the
life out of her. It froze the rain against her skin, stiffening her body to a
full bright blue stop.
The basket that had been under her arm fell, causing a
white blanket to cascade from its wicker confinement. Floating atop the fabric
was a candle. Its scent was marked on one side. “Winter morning.” The short
story’s skin was illuminated by the sun passing through the clouds, giving her
a warm white glow to her otherwise cold body.
No comments:
Post a Comment