The Fall of Winter

November 22, 2008
The first snow of winter fell, silent as a dream. It landed on the white landscape, slowly enveloping the world in a thin and icy blanket. The skeletons of the trees collected delicate clumps of snow on their branches. Not a sound escaped the world. No wind blew, no bird sang, no animal scampered across the forest floor. The silence was as powerful as a thunderclap, and so stunning it was disturbing. But there was no one to listen to it.

Strewn across the ground, now almost hidden by snow, the bodies of a million men and women. All their eyes were blank and lifeless, and their hearts were cold long before the snow started falling. Limbs were flung in various directions, and many still clutched weapons. Some bodies weren’t even in one piece, but were blown apart by heavy artillery. There were at least fifty different bloodstained uniforms, many of which were could no longer be identified. Yet all the different nations were finally unified, their blood flowing into one giant red pool. Americans lay with Asians, Africans lay with English. After the final war there was finally peace.

In the cities, the giant silver towers were slowly turning white as the snow fell. Many of the buildings lay in ruins, smoke still curling into the sky. Destruction was visible everywhere, and shards of glass and brick were scattered across the street. Cars had been tossed around like toys, and the roads had been torn up. Even the bomb shelters had been destroyed.

All around the world, it was snowing. In Africa, it was snowing. In the Americas, it was snowing. In Asia, it was snowing. The heavens seemed to be crying, their tears freezing before they hit the ground. The final war had reached every corner of the earth, it had consumed everything. And slowly, the snow was covering it all up.

But not everyone was dead. Somewhere in America, the last two humans alive huddled around a fire. Both teenagers, they didn’t know what to do. One was a male soldier who had fought in the war and was wounded. Without any treatment, he was slowly dying. His skin was clammy, and he couldn’t walk anymore. But his brown eyes still shone with all their brilliance. The other was a girl slightly younger than the boy, and also was the boys closest companion. She had been trying to care for the wounded boy, but lacking experience, she couldn’t do much. Her black hair was unkept, for she didn’t have any time for it anymore.

“The snow hasn’t stopped,” she told the boy, who couldn’t see outside from his cot. All she heard in replay was a racking cough. “Do you think there’s anyone else out there?” she asked, walking balk to sit at the side of his cot.

“No,” he answered, the small word rattling in his throat, his voice as coarse as sandpaper. “I can feel it. We’re the last ones. And, as things are looking, we aren’t going to last long anyway.” He finished his statement with an enormous cough that stung the girls heart. The boy sighed and looked at the girl. “Take me to the window. I want to see the snow.” His red-rimmed eyes met hers, and she knew that this was his last wish.

“Of course.” she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. She helped him up, draping his arm on the back of her neck. Slowly, they made their way to the window, the boy’s feet dragging across the floor. When they got to the window, he leaned against the window frame. He was silent for a while, his eyes taking the scene in front of him in great detail. The snow, the broken buildings, the smoke curling in the air, everything. “The snow is so beautiful. Even on all the destruction. It’s like the snow is purifying the world.” His mouth twisted into a smile at this thought. Than, hesitating at first, he reached his hand out into the cold. The snow stuck to his skin, but he barely felt it. He kept his hand there for a while, admiring the small pile of ice that was forming on his hand.

“Come on, lets get you back to the cot. This cold isn’t helping your condition at all.” Even though they both knew that nothing could help his condition anyway, they went back to the cot. He lay there, his eyes half closed, a smile still on his lips. A tear escaped the girls eye, and hesitantly bent down. The boy knew what was coming, and closed his eyes.

By the time her lips touched his, she was kissing a dead man. More tears started flowing down her cheeks. Too late, she thought. We were always just a little too late . . .

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project827 said...
Jun. 3, 2009 at 8:33 pm
project827 said...
Jun. 1, 2009 at 8:49 pm
i really do not know why this was posted twice. I would appreciate it if you didn't comment or rate this article, if you want to go to the other one.
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