Azila wrote:Snow. It is all that I see. I am surrounded by glistening whiteness. It swirls around me on the ground.
Azila wrote: It is flattening and the laciness is leaving. The cool crispness is becoming smotheringly warm –almost like soggy fabric.
Azila wrote:Someone calls my name.
Azila wrote:The soggy air presses against me like swelteringly murky water.
Azila wrote:I wish desperately that I should open my eyes to the beautiful white crispness of the powdery snow and inhale blissfully fresh winter air. But no; through my opening lids seeps humid light and a sticky, sweaty feeling surrounds my awakening body.
Azila wrote:The person who called me is Libby, my sister. She’s in her bed next to mine, and her tanned face is carved with lines of anxiety. Her dark eyebrows are arched and her short, silky brown hair resembles a tangled bird’s nest with twigs of hair sticking out in every direction.
Azila wrote:I notice that the blizzard is slowing and thinning.
Azila wrote:The designs are crisp –too crisp for the recent snowstorm and the feathery snow. What could have made them? I kneel down to take a closer look. They look like stars, or trees, or snowflakes; with six swirling arms that split and twist. In the center of each star is a curly design that resembles a Celtic knot. They look faintly familiar, but I cannot place where I have seen them before. What celestial being could have made its prints so crisply in the powdery snow, into which I can make no permanent impression?
Azila wrote: The crisp air is tinged with a tangy twist of exotic sweetness, like a drop of fruit juice that is swirled into water. I walk faster, sure now that the footprints are leading to the forest.
Azila wrote:I bow my head and run, not allowing the clawing grip to slow me down. Every time I land, a cloud of twinkling snow puffs up around my knees.
Azila wrote:My terpsichorean feet barely alight after each leap, only long enough to propel myself for the next soar.
Azila wrote:Mom and Libby, dressed in their bathrobes, are on either side of me, supporting me, and a big tree looms in front of me.
Azila wrote:The sun is blindingly strong and hot, it glares at me as if I am a naughty child who needs a scolding.
Azila wrote:I try to shake free of her familiar iron talons, but they claw at my nightshirt and refuse to give in to my squirms and pleas.
Azila wrote:I wonder what it is in there. I cannot bring myself to look away. I sink down to my knees. Hands grip me and pull. I am soon being carried speedily away from the light.
Azila wrote:My insides squirm with curious interest at the thought of the glowing thing.
Azila wrote:It does not occur to me to talk, so I just I say it with my mind.
Azila wrote:The being seems to understand it glides towards me, blinding me with its beauty.
Azila wrote:Shortly after I begin to walk, I start to hear muffled shouts and feel a painful grip on my arm that makes me pause and look around. There is nobody there. But yet, I can feel the fingers –the strong, hard, boney talons. Panic makes me run and running tears the talons away from me. Soon the grip catches me again, but I punch it away roughly and run faster. Something in the direction of my punch emits a pained yelp, distant and insignificant.
I bow my head and run, not allowing the clawing grip to slow me down. Every time I land, a cloud of twinkling snow puffs up around my knees. I yank free of the grip and bound onwards. I think it is snowing again, but the flakes that tickle my face with their angelic coolness may be just what I am disturbing with my feet. Whatever the reason, there is a cloud of white snow around me through which I cannot see. But I do not feel blind; I feel safe, almost guided.
My head still bowed, I spring onwards, as elegant as a gazelle. My terpsichorean feet barely alight after each leap, only long enough to propel myself for the next soar. But there is that demonic tug again, accompanied by a shout. I shove the grabbing hands away and run even faster.