Emily Bredahl
Stories (3/0)
The Hunt
The hunter bursts inside his small worn down house, eager to get out of the frigid weather. The shingles are falling apart faster than they can be repaired, cold air blowing in through every crevice. He tries to light a fire, with the hope of thawing his frozen home. Each gust of wind make that flame more and more impossible to obtain. His game fresh from the hunt, hangs outside waiting to be skinned and cooked. When was the last time he has eaten? He thinks back to the days when his son would join him on their annual hunting trip. Them laughing and reliving old memories of previous hunts. His son’s first perfect shot, in the centre of a moose’s heart.
By Emily Bredahl4 years ago in Horror
The Blacksmith's Sonnet
Creeping through the crevices one-by-one The light of dusk won’t be stopped by aged wood Seeping into her eyes, woke by the sun She shudders, shaken by dreams of childhood. To work she is put, for Father taught well Lighting coals, preparing the flames to lick The iron ore glows, casts shadows of hell Gripped with her tongs, she grabs the iron quick. Over and over tap the metal beat His voice rings her ears she quickens her pace Sweat drips off her brow, sizzling on the heat Sight blurs, coals shift to eyes blazed on his face. She forges the shield, pond ’ring the days When Father forged her, in parallel ways.
By Emily Bredahl4 years ago in Poets