Shannon Murphy
Bio
Aspiring novelist. I enjoy writing historical fiction and historical fantasy.
Stories (1/0)
The Church
You squint as the sun's low rays reflect off the recently fallen snow. You look around and see that you are in a forest, but you are confused about exactly where you are. You look down at your aged hands and your worn clothes. Well, you say clothes, but they are more like rags. Torn and restitched dozens of times over. Your shoes are no better, with the soles, long worn out, and your big toe sticking out of a small hole in the top of the left shoe. The old and tattered leather gloves, the right of which no longer has a thumb, do little to keep your hands warm. Your old, wrinkled hands shake slightly as you bring them up to your face and exhale loudly. A large puff of hot steamy air fogs up the thick bifocal glasses that currently adorn your weathered face. You sigh and remove the spectacles from your face and wipe the moisture away with your scarf. You look at it fondly as you remember your wife’s aged face. Her smile creating even more wrinkles on her beautiful features as she twirls one of her long grey curls. She had given the scarf to you before she passed last year. You sigh once more and place your glasses back on your face. After a moment you relocate the path and begin to walk, trudging through the snow slowly as you breathe heavily. You are tired and your body feels heavy and numb. You want to lay down and fall asleep but something inside you is telling you to keep moving. It urges you forward like the hands of a small child on your back telling you to keep going. It is cold and is getting dark quickly. You urge your legs to move faster, pushing forward toward the town that lay less than a mile away.
By Shannon Murphy3 years ago in Fiction