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Empty Fields of White

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The clouds were low on this grey December dawn, the sun just a silvery ghost in the sky, turning the pine trees to a dull faded blue.

It was cold, and my jacket did little to shield my paling skin from the winter's piercing bite. I left red footprints in the thick white powder below, the flesh of my feet torn from days of walking.


My old log cabin came into view as the number of guarding pines dwindled, I gathered a warmth from the old dark wood.

It was a small dwelling, with no flowers due to the weather in these mountainous confines. Soft lime like tendrils of grass grew around it during the spring, never dying, and I could see some of their stragglers now. Almost blue, their spikes appearing just above the frost.

Inside would be a fire place, warm and crackling, and it would melt the ice from my skin like nothing else.


I could feel the persian rug that would soon be beneath my healing feet.
I could hear the cracks and creaks of my home as it settled.
I could smell the heavy, sleep inducing smoke that wafted into the air, and was brought to my knees as the winter creeped into my muscles, seeping into my bones.

Burning me..


I clutched at the thin material guarding my chest as the cold mercilessly dug its way inside my lungs...my heart. Then the pines were gone. The snow, the grass, the fog, the cabin, it was all gone.


And the red foot prints I’d trailed formed a vortex in my eyes.




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