Winter Bright
by Jill C.
It is as if one of God's angels has slashed a goose down pillow, a beanbag chair, and a bag of ice and is shaking them all over my head. A nice day for skiing, sure. But not a nice day.
I am ready to go down the hill. I pause for a moment and consider what it took to get up the hill. All my breath, half my strength, ten minutes of strenuously v-stepping up at a hundred-and-twenty degree angle. I turn my face to the sky and let the mixed shaved ice collect on my goggles. I take a deep breath, bend my knees, and begin to slide down the hill.
The wind bites my cheeks and frozen pellets hit like pinpricks. The horizon has vanished; white ground and white sky combine into an endless expanse of bright nothingness. I reach the bottom of the hill and let out my breath, but the ground is suddenly gone from under me. I am hurtling downward at a thousand miles an hour. I try to remain stable, but to no avail. I am on my back, snow sliding between my jacket and shirt to form a cold, wet splotch. I skid to a stop, my eyes fixed on the sky. I push to my side, and see my poles stuck in the snow at the top of the second hill. I realize that I will now have to climb back up the hill that stole my strength-- with no poles. I flop back onto my back and begin to laugh.
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Three projects currently in the works, none of which are very happy.
