Ice Man

By Isla Skinner

I’ve been on this mountain for 3 days now. The weather has not improved, and seems to be worsening. I fear for my life at night. Without the sun, the temperature drop into the -50s. My equipment is running out and without it I am sure to die here.  My water source is low because the water freezes to an uncomfortable temperature. My coat has torn and it is losing insulation every day.  Every night, I dream of my wife, at home, safe…

The cold was brutal. My legs fought against the heavy snow. The wind was violent. It blew hard through my hair and into my face. My heart pounded in my chest.  A gust of wind knocked me off my feet. Snowflakes whizzed by as I flew. Right before I landed, I realized it was over. I plunged deep into the snow, my body buried by the sharp shards. I lay there, contemplating what might happen to me. I was as good as gone, but I refused to think that way. I rose from the depths and faced the direction of the top of the mountain.

I charged forward, fighting the wind with all my might. My camp was just up ahead, and I was determined to get there.  The wind sent small icicles into my face. I shielded my eyes, but it was no use. I glanced up, moving my arm away from my face. I saw the blurry silhouette of my tent. I felt my heart skip a beat, but I didn’t move any faster.

When I finally reached my tent I crawled inside and dove into my sleeping bag. My legs ached and my skin stung. I tried clenching and unclenching my hands to warm them up, but it they still felt numb.  “Tomorrow,” I said to myself, “I will face the gods and test whether I am worthy to live or not.” With that, I fell into a deep slumber.

I awoke the next morning, startled. My tent was shaking furiously. Light came bursting in as the door of the tent was ripped open. I froze, unsure of what it was and what to do about it. A giant hand grabbed me by the torso and pulled me out. I was carried up to see the face of something I couldn’t figure out. A giant baby, perhaps?  No, I could see it now. It was a giant boy, about 9 years old. He held me close to his face.

“Oh, no!” He shouted, in a story telling sort of voice, “He’s got an infection in his arm! It has to be amputated!”

NO! I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. The boy started to tug on my arm. Harder and harder he pulled. POP! My arm went flying through the air. There was a clunk, and seconds later an even bigger person came into sight.

“Samuel! You know that was a gift from your grandparents!” The person scolded.

“But Mom, it was a part of my game! He was an adventurer on a cold mountain!”

“You will put that arm back on, mister, or you’re in serious trouble!” His mother stormed away.

“But, Mom!” The boy threw me on the floor and ran after his mother.

Way to ruin it lady, I thought. I yawned and continued my sleep there on the carpet. Distantly, I heard the lady yelling.

“That action figure was supposed to be played with, not destroyed!”  A door slammed.

Categories: Issue 5, Young Writers | Leave a comment

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