Ben Schrueder

A Frigid Dance

...It‘s perfect. She stared out over the frozen pond, watching the reflection of the stars in the ice as the distant sounds of crumbling rock echoed through the mountains around her. Breathing in the crisp night air, she felt the biting wind against her skin as a thick fog drifted overhead, enshrouding the stars with impenetrable grey; a stark canvas for her imagination to paint with. Silhouettes of mountains became colossal monsters bearing down on her. The wind howled through the mountains, chilling her bones as it rushed past her, ripping through her hair.