Alex McGladrey

Echoes of Crookstone

There I was, seeing serenity on the water, if only for a second, as one leaf gently bobbed above its surface. Then each drop hardened and cooled, turning the pond into an ovular ice block. I could feel the blood in my forearm run cold as I reluctantly withdrew my hand from the translucent zone; the jet black fog around this sparse waterside left the floating plant (now encased below the glacial formation) as my sole point of interest, though one I would rather pursue without the interference of hypothermia. Gazing on into the distance for anyone else in this endless tundra distracted me from the wispy smoke behind me, which rolled up my spine before dropping into my lungs. The consequent fit of panicked wheezing was only worsened by my eyes stinging. I blindly lunged for the lake, running from my only known aggressor here. But upon contact with the ice, there was no sensation of impact, instead only a deep chill throughout my blood. As the ice absorbed the fog toxins from my system, I looked onwards. Between the ice crystals (now accented by threads of that dark haze) I beheld the sinking leaf. I attempted extending an arm to catch it, but was not even given the hint of numbness. Below me was only a depth of blackness, which I could feel absorbing the remnants of my warmth, with my consciousness following shortly thereafter.