Wicked White

Mathias stood. Silently wallowing in despair. Fooling himself, he fed the last of the scavenged pieces of dry-rotted wood into the fat-bellied steel black stove. He laid his shotgun against the wall after an unsuccessful run in the storm for food. The man knew that was madness, but what was he to do? The last of their rations had been exhausted and they had no water. Mother only packed for church. Pickled eggs and a half loaf of bread; a special meal. With every passing hour, the white dust intensified and grew into impassable mounds. They were trapped. The squall had portended an imminent and cruel end, divining with the bitter elements, plotting with nature, offering no escape from the wicked Winter tempest.

The wife and children lay huddled in a corner, finding refuge under a makeshift burrow constructed of two worn and dusty old mattresses and a ragged tarp made from a soiled woolen blanket. The place smelled of decades-old mildew and straw, mingled with the fumes from the particulates billowing from the navel of the oven. They were 1 of 10 families stranded by the storm that seemed to come out of nowhere. Mother could not console her children; Father was no longer able to provide. Man was defeated. Nature had won.

“The cold will not capture their souls…I will keep them from this dreadfulness. I can do nothing to soothe the glacial biting in their members.”

Rifle in hand, Mathias pulled back the tarp…

...Fade to black.