by Roisin o'Hare
Winter is harsh here. Deny the claws that rend your hollow stomach, eat sparingly of hoarded food. The days are brief and grey, the nights unending. Ice lurks treacherous, snow temptingly soft, wind pierces clothing to steal warmth from any unguarded flesh.
And the winter walkers rise.
Truly the corpses of loved ones lost or simply snow-puppets, cruel caricatures. It makes no difference. Their cries need no breath, their broken fingers scrape at door and window. When the last leaf falls, the siege begins again. Despair kills more than the cold.
It will be too long before we see crocuses.
Author bio: Roisin o'Hare, an Irish girl living in Oxford who spends too much time saying 'I should write' and not enough time writing.
Cycle is part of 101 Fiction issue 2.
After reading this gorgeous piece, I go back to the opening sentence and marvel at it's understatement.
ReplyDeleteAnd that last sentence is *killer.* Well done!
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