Winter

Evening all! I was a bit lost this afternoon so I wrote this short story in half an hour or so. I like to be influenced by surroundings, but I know that it isn't snowing (yet!): however it is almost winter, which will mean more winter recipes and a wrap-up of my Autumn dishes. I acknowledge that this isn't exactly the pinnacle of writing genius, but it was fun to do and I felt like putting it up here (I could do more if you like).

P.S. It is from the sequel to my trilogy of books (See 'A break from food') which I am writing at the moment in totally unrelated, random chapters that will hopefully come together.

I felt strangely disconnected; a decapitated soul drifting slowly away from my physical form. I had lost my feet hours ago, my legs and arms shortly after that. The numbing cold was terrifying, yet a godsend as well. I didn’t dare try to move my toes; even the slightest involuntary bend of the knee sent sharp jolts of pain through my thigh and up my spinal cord.

The world before me was a haze of grey and white: the clouds were low and suspended, frozen into tiny ice particles that dully glowed. From afar they appeared like a watercolour, painted by an enthusiast of the monochrome palette. Yet up close the beauty came into more detail still; the tiny beginnings of what may have been snowflakes dripping from the very air itself.  It did not help much, however, to have my eyes open now: either way, I would see a field of white or alternatively an inky abyss of black. In fact it was more comfortable to stand there, shutting out the surroundings, as they were beginning to print lasting pictures on the back of my eyes.

Truly, I felt isolated. Stranded. Peaceful. I was neither in my body nor out of it; a thread of consciousness tied me loosely to the slab of meat hunkered down in the snow. Surrounded on all sides by a blanket of cold, it was easy to slip out of my true location and imagine I was somewhere else: trekking through Greenland maybe, or squatting down by the Beaufort Sea to watch the Aurora Borealis dance, undulating overhead in a cacophony of blues, greens and purples.

I gasped, the air forced straight out of my lungs. From out of the white came a barrage of cold, slimy wetness, and as I was forced violently back from my abstract state a faint scream squeezed its way out of my uselessly deflated windpipe. The snow trickled down my parka, icy fingers of pure evil teasing my body back to consciousness and an existence of terrible, terrible pain.

From the icy blizzard a shape emerged: hazy at first and broken by the swirling clouds of snow, yet coming into focus. This shape, this drunken, stumbling humanoid, halted inches from my face. Grotesque swathes of tatty rags covered a vaguely circular headpiece: no doubt keeping the thing from falling to bits. The skin, poking out in blotchy patches, was a sickly white, stained a pale shade of green. I could just made out two eyes, glowing with the embers of a low fire, glaring out at me from within the depths. The thing made a sound: mid-way between a grunt and a moan. I had no words to reply. Then, with a movement that send my heart leaping to somewhere above my Adam’s apple, the figure wrenched away the cloth from its face.

It smiled (was it male? Female? Neither?) a gesture that may have been made with good intent; but it only distorted the face horribly into a lopsided, twisted grimace, lips pulled tight over what were no doubt fangs. I backed away slowly, my feet protesting with every step. Stretching my hands in front of me in a sign of peace and goodwill, I tried not to make any sudden movements. The thing rolled its eyes.

“Dad wants to know if you’ve finished shovelling the path yet.” It folded its arms in expectation. I sniffed as my brother pulled his scarf back over his face. It was so unfair, being the younger sibling.  Everyone seemed to think they could use me like some sort of servant, the one who was always hanging on the end of their every word to attend to whatever they may take a predilection for next. Even the au-pair seemed to be getting the better of me.

“Fine.” I stomped the powdery snow off my boots, exposing a patch of frost-fringed grass underneath. “You can do it, if you’re that worried.” I threw him the shovel and stalked away with a haughty air in the direction of the house, neatly and coolly altering my course as I bumped into the French windows.

© derekmccrea