Michael France

The Thin Ice

They were all silent and uneasy, Alex noted, not just him. The coarse wind blew across Schuler’s Pond, wafting the light dust of white across the icy surface. The cattails and reeds poked through the ice and stood tall, even in this time of year when the frozen surface was at its most solid. Normally the air would be filled with the clapping of sticks on the ice and the sharp cutting of skates scraping across the hard, cold surface, along with the boisterous cacophony of jests thrown about among the boys.