On the Edge part 2 (standard:drama, 685 words) [2/2] show all parts
Author: Draimen	Added: May 10 2003	Views/Reads: 2403/0	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
the next section of my first attempt.

Ice sickles popped in tiny crystals from my eyes.  Falling like dropped
coins in a well, the sickles wavered.  Scrambling fluidly backwards I 
rolled and turned to run.  In my rush to lunge my toe caught my heel 
and fell me.  On my descent I saw them clearly.  Wolves, all with those 
ghostly yellow eyes.  Eyes that watched me fall and the air escape from 
my lungs.  Struggling to breath, mist showered my neck.  Fine droplets 
dappled my skin, raising each hair on the back of my neck.  The cold 
that pursued nipped fiercely.  The tenacious vapors iced my cheek, on 
the mist I could taste death.  Sour and warm.  The taste sickened me 
and the smell of rot encompassed my senses.  The decay and malice 
carried throughout my body, shaking me into convulsions.  Rotting flesh 
heaved my stomach.  Splashing on the ice, my insides strained over my 
teeth like sand.  Grind with every movement of my mouth, the grit 
caused me to wretch again and again, until the ice before me began to 
melt and I shook in dry heaves.  Then I felt the warmth.  First across 
my the side of my neck, then moving up my face.  Squishing around my 
features I crashed out of consciousness. 

When I awoke I couldn't feel.  I couldn't feel my legs, my fingers, or
even my face.  Numbness consumed me.  In my fright I jerked my head up, 
tearing the flesh.  Blood ran the length of my face, stinging in the 
bitterness of the ice and snow.  The blood froze almost instantly, 
pulling my skin taught as it constricted in gravely lines.  The warm 
blood flowed under the frozen, building the crimson glass on my cheek.  
I realized that I could feel then, only not in the conventional sense.  
The ferocity of the Arctic drilled to my marrow, chilling my bones and 
stabbing needles through my skin from the inside.  Chilling were the 
needles, yet they burned like a candle wick in my skin when any 
pressure was applied.  It was this extreme cold that left me without 
feeling.  What a crime it was to be devoid of touch.  The absence of 
this precious sense was frightening.  What was the use of sight if you 
could not feel.  Why see beauty when you cannot run your fingers 
through it.  Still more was smell.  Why smell the aromatic citrus if 
you cannot feel the texture of the skin when you squeeze it in your 
palm.  This void filled me with a dread and a longing to submerse my 
senses in the joys of nonchalant actions.  I wanted to feel the powdery 
silk beneath the skin of an orange, and combine all my senses into that 
one moment.  Relish in the beauty of the scent, tasting the sweet 
juices that squirt forth with a pinch of the my fingers on the satin 
lobes.  Not until now, in my desolation, could I realize the 
preciousness of all that had been given to me, not until I was robbed 
of them. 

In my desperation to regain my stolen sense I forgot about the yellow
eyes of death.  Nowhere to seen could the wolves be found.  Only the 
wretchedness of my insides, and the skin frozen to it, lay before me.  
Wiping my cheek, the crystalline blood cracked and fell to the ice, 
leaving my skin to bleed a new scar.  I could feel the vomit, frozen 
and matted to my hair, only through the tug of the brittle lattice 
entrenched in my follicles. 

A howl arose then.  Chilling to the core, its siren rang a ghastly note.
 It must be the wolves returning for a meal.  The howl rose to 
encompassing baritone that echoed in my ears.  I realized I would only 
be too lucky had it been wolves.  For the death brought to me by the 
wolves would have been warm. Albeit a bit unpleasant, but warm just the 
same.  Instead, the winds rose and a wall of white came swirling in 
with a crash all about me. 

Please vote on this to let me know how Im doing. Draimen


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