Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 87

Desolate.
It was so very desolate. No plants, no land, no buildings. A world of ice and snow. A blanched canvas. I
snuggled up into my furry cloak. I was doomed. Fated to die here, my corpse soon to be encapsulated in
layers of snow. The emptiness in my soul matches the spiritless sky and the featureless landscape around me.
Day and night blended together. What difference was there? It’s all blank. A snowstorm whirls around me,
remorselessly impaling me with shards of ice and balls of snow. My lips parched, my eyes blinded and my
skin numbed. Cracks appeared beneath my feet. I am a dead man. A walking corpse. Only God can save me
now. But then again, I was never one to have faith.
The only sounds to accompany me was the moaning of wind, the crunch of footstep and the wheezing of
breath. The slippery snow is my enemy. Its soul as frigid as a ghoul’s, darker than a demon’s. It bends its full
will against my survival and is winning.
I don’t where I’m going. I don’t know how long do I have to live. I don’t know how far this icefield
stretches out for. I just continue to move my lead-filled legs forward.
One step at a time.