Hell is a frozen forest
The start of a long journey after death.
He hated the cold. It cut into his throat and eyes, gashed his lips and cheeks and hands with invisible cuts that grew hotter the longer he froze. The snow crackled threateningly underfoot as though he might sink down into it at any moment. His tennis shoes dipped in and out of the white stuff, bright red, every flash of their reappearance making him feel as though his feet were bleeding.
He felt dazed, odd and frostbitten as though the cold had rattled the brain and heart of him, fragmented something deep inside into frozen splinters, sent them spiraling and penetrating his core. He hurt somewhere, but he wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t merely the idea of hurt, an expectation of pain, a hope for it rather than actual, blistering hurt. Did he want to feel pain? He supposed not, but he found it strange that he didn’t.
The woods yawned in front of him. He wondered when and if they ended. Behind him the car continued to breathe smoke into the air. People had begun to gather and take pictures as sirens sounded. He walked on alone, bloodless and unbruised.
He wondered if there was a fire waiting on the other side of the forest, a respite from the deep cold that shivered inside of him and hurt the heart of him. But there was nothing to do except put one foot in front of the other and try to ignore the fact that they didn’t leave footprints behind.
About the Creator
Amelia Moore
18-year-old writer who hopes to write stories for a living someday-- failing that, I'd like to become a mermaid.
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More stories from Amelia Moore and writers in Fiction and other communities.
the priest
Stained glass draws patterns onto the floor that dapples the wood and directs the eye to where the pews sit battered, old and scratched, cushions faded by decades of kneeling. Book pages are yellowed and most of them stick together. The age of the church hangs in the air, in the particles of dust, in the sunlight that tentatively makes its way through the large windows.
By Amelia Moore8 months ago in Fiction
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By S. A. Crawford6 days ago in Fiction
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Maya’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sixty seconds. That’s all she had. She peeked through the grimy bus window, the pre-dawn Sumenep sky bruised with the promise of a violent sunrise. The conductor’s booming voice, a rhythmic singsong in Javanese, faded as the bus lurched to a stop. Sixty seconds to rewrite her destiny.
By Moh Amirullaha day ago in Fiction
Comments (7)
I loved that last line. Great description. I was right there.
Oooo so good, Amelia! The imagery here is beautiful. I loved how you were able to capture the imagination of what it might be like after death, like when he finds it strange that he feels no pain
This is excellent! You have so much great description and imagery here. The cold cutting and gashing, the woods yawning. The way you describe the character feeling hurt but also not at the same time, almost as if his whole being - body and soul - are frostbitten. I really enjoyed reading this!
This was so good. And what an epic last line.
Dante's deepest level of Hell becomes his entry point. Oh, I can't imagine where he goes from here.
Well done! I loved it!
Oh Amelia! This is so good!! Loved it.