“Snow falls. Snow, white as the dove’s gentle wing. Snow, like the soft fields of cotton. The cold wonder that proves always to be beautiful as it floats to the ground. It travels down lightly, in slow, poetic movements. Landing, it melts slightly, bright white against the gravel trail it falls upon.”
Snow, white as the dove’s gentle wing. Snow, like the soft fields of cotton. The cold wonder that proves always to be beautiful as it floats to the ground. It travels down lightly, in slow, poetic movements. Landing, it melts slightly, bright white against the gravel trail it falls upon.
Feel it. The white snow, a soft powder. Feel the slight sting of cold it gives you as it falls on your legs, arms, and face.
Now listen: do you hear that? The faraway clanking that becomes louder with every second. The sound of the hooves against wet, hard gravel. The squelch of the slipping snow underneath running feet.
Cup your ear. Alert your senses. There’s more.
The running feet click on the gravel, quickening every time a snap is heard. There’s a voice, too. A deep, aged voice calls out and lets out short yelps. There is another sound behind the shouting voice and the jangling feet. It’s a low sound, coming from the ground. Becomes louder with the noises of the feet. Wheels.
Now look: four horses appear on the trail. Their pelts are various shades of chocolate and the night sky. They’re running quick, leather straps holding them to a large carriage. An elderly man with grayed hair sits outside the carriage on a wooden seat, holding the leather, shouting at the galloping horses. He holds a long, menacing whip, urging the horses to go their fastest. The carriage they haul is a light blue, almost hiding in the snow.
Look closer. Look inside that carriage. Do you see her? The woman? The young adult, sitting peacefully with her long hair drawn up into a braid? Look at her. Don’t take your eyes off her for a second, for something is about to happen.
Now stop. Breath. Take a long, deep breath.
Think. Feel the trail. Feel the horses running, the snow falling. Feel the man shouting and the woman sitting. Be in it.
You think you know all that’s happening this quiet Sunday, as the woman is pulled along the path. You know the snow falls, the horses run, the man shouts, and the woman sits. That is the story. That’s all. Everything, is just the beautiful, snowy trail.
But there is one thing in this story you didn’t get to hear, you didn’t get to see. You don’t know the one thing in this story that changes everything. Do you want to know?
The woman dies. She always dies in this story. No matter what you do, the woman in this snowy scene will die.
But how, is up to you.
Maybe you see the bandits with crimson red bandanas chasing after the carriage, holding menacing daggers, ganging up to the horse. You see them swiftly abandon their horses as they jump onto the carriage’s roof and walls. They sneak their way into it, where the beautiful woman sits, and stab her away.
Maybe you see the sudden slope that appears in the path ahead, though you know it’s too late for the old driver to turn back. The horses’ hooves slip on the icy fault, dragging the carriage dangerously down with them. The woman screams, trying to escape, but it’s too late, for she’s crushed under the toppling carriage.
Maybe you see the gentle snow suddenly attack, growing in speed until it’s impossible to see, for all the white blinds you. The woman gets stuck in the horrible blizzard, unable to run, unable to move. She’s trapped there in the cold, until she no longer feels anything.
Or maybe you see something else entirely, something that’s hidden in the snow, come out for the woman.