Snow Ghouls

Winter, cold, frost, these are the attributes of a season of death. Spring colors, summer heat, and autumn fruits – deeply missed in the cold days of a solemn cabin in the mountains.

When the night falls, and natural light grows dimmer, the air gets so sharp – it cuts through the lungs like razors.

Old cypress trees whistle from the wind, bend and slowly come to their form again – ghostly screams of the forest buried under a heavy white cover.

Radiant stars twinkle, so distant and also in a cold environment of space, gleaming through aurora borealis that paints the sky in curves of green light.

Fire is burning in the fireplace, yet it can not fulfill the room with heat. One window the cabin has, it’s cover with ice, I fear it might break and let the blizzard in. That one flame we have is powerless in comparison to the harsh lands beyond the wooden walls.

And the walls are thick, strong, gaps filled with moss, they stand as a formidable barrier.

The front door is wide open, snow powder dances over the surface, carried with the wind it makes little vertigos on a rug. The bluish night stands back, frightened from the light in the cabin, while two eyes linger, glow in the endless darkness, howl in a choir with his companions.

They snarl through the rugged bloody jaws, blood already thickened on their fangs. Ice is firmly holding on for their grey fur, not letting go for a moment, soaked in pink paint when they plunged their muzzles in the carcasses.

I wonder… When will the mountain patrol find our butchered bodies?

Wolfs Dronstad

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