An Homage to Writers

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is something I wrote for a contest which I was way too late to enter. But I like the piece and I wanted to share it with other writers. I wrote it before starting a new story. The white snow is a metaphor for the blank page (which can be a very scary thing). Once the heroine reaches the cabin of course her journey isn't over, just as when we finish our stories it's not really the end. But it's a sweet moment, a reason to celebrate when the final draft is done. And so that's what this story is, a short, sweet homage to writers.

Submitted: March 12, 2014

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Submitted: March 12, 2014



She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

Her boots crunched onto hard snow as she descended onto the trail. She walked fast, knowing if she hesitated she’d turn and go back. 

What lay beyond the trail frightened her. Her eyes cast down. She saw nothing more than her own feet. With each step two big, insulated black boots disturbed pure, white snow. 

Directly above was fresh and clear sky. In the distance, heavy clouds pushed in. They weighed on her mind and she questioned her judgment as she powered forward, right toward them. 

She reached the edge of the trail, the edge of what was safe. She kept her eyes down. If she looked up at the white expanse she would be too frightened. 

Her boots sunk in deeper and deeper. They disappeared as white powder graced past her knees. Her momentum slowed but her cheeks burned red from exertion. 

She had wanted to do this so much, played it out in her mind a thousand times, and all with the same result: she’d get there. She’d make it, and eventually, her steps in the snow would be erased and this struggle would be nothing but a memory.

The snow started hitting her hips. It took all her strength and energy to push onward, one slow, muscle burning step after another. Out of breath and feeling her heart pound in her chest she stopped. 

The white expanse surrounded her. The storm clouds rolled in and with the rise in pressure came a rise in temperature. Sweat poured down her back. 

Panic swept over her. 

What if she couldn’t find her way? 

The white unknown sat before her, dark footprints behind her. If she followed them she would arrive back at her cabin. Her safe, warm and familiar cabin.  

She pushed herself forward, pushing her knees against the heavy snow, her thighs burning with the strain. The dark clouds were over her now. Light flurries began to fall. It coated her hair and shoulders, a seeming suggestion to just give in. All she had to do was stop for good and the snow would swallow her up; it’d be like none of this had ever happened. 

She brushed off the snow and pushed forward hard. Her breathes came out in visible puffs before her. Her chest heaved up and down and all she could hear was her body forcing its way through the snow. 

So what if her throat felt like it was on fire and her legs wanted to burst open from the exhaustion? She couldn’t give up, not now. What she desired was closer than ever. She couldn’t see it but she was out here, pushing onwards, and any moment it would appear and she’d be there.

She fell and submerged into the cold snow. Hot panic flooded her. She reached forward, her heart pounding, crawling, continuing only because it was too late to turn back.

She lifted her head and saw smoke billowing up. She dragged herself forward and stumbled onto a trail. She was almost there! 

The hard snow felt good and once again she walked fast. Her body pumped with endorphins and the sweat on her back began to cool and reawaken her.

She walked up to the cabin. The door flung open and he welcomed her with a big hug. He handed her a mulled wine and she laughed. She was already forgetting the journey and could hardly remember sitting in her own cabin, reading a book, trying to muster up the courage to go.

© Copyright 2018 Melissa Field. All rights reserved.

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