by Helen A. Howell
The wind stung his face and chapped his skin. Its icy fingers lifted the snow into a frenzied dance, to fall as a blinding blanket upon the ground. He bent his head against the weather and willed himself towards the shack and refuge. I’ll be safe there for now, he thought. But how long before they come?
He lifted his head when he reached the door then grasped hold of the latch and the door creaked open. He stepped inside, relieved to be out of the cold.
Shadows clung to the walls. In the darkness in a corner, something smiled.
Author bio: Helen is a fiction writer, who writes in several genres which include fantasy, noir, horror and humour. She has written several short stories, flash fictions, poems and completed her first novel, a children’s fantasy fiction.
Her website is http://helen-scribbles.com
Hah! Twisteroo accomplished. I'll put it in the company of Bradbury's story, The Ravine. Cool as usual, HH.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much AJ ^_^
ReplyDeleteThey're always a jump ahead!
ReplyDeleteSo true Larry! Thanks for taking the time to read. ^_^
DeleteVery cold. Very creepy.
ReplyDeleteThank you kymm for the comment and for taking the time to read.
ReplyDelete