Young Writers Society

A pile of gray bricks and Gothic ironwork was mounded around each of the remnants of two, five-foot pillars that stood fifteen feet apart. While the overthrow remained standing, beams were broken off, protruding past the rubble and functioning as fine edges. The snow that flurried amounted to a couple of feet on the ground. However, the layer of snow that dusted the pointed tips of each beam served as no protection from the heaps’ piercing capabilities.

Similarly, the metropolis a few miles away was met with desolation. Through the eyes of a person from the demolished gate, one would see that only some of the tallest buildings held its architectural integrity. Others were lopsided or found collapsed. One structure was recently obliterated, as smoke from its fire billowed until it mixed in with the color of the clouds in the sky.

The overcast was only penetrated through a ray of sunlight that shone near one of the pillars of the gate. A naked, ashen-skinned woman with coarse, amber hair that went below her waist, stood in the ray.

She carried a seven-foot conch on her shoulders like Atlas. Her right hand had her fingertips wrapped around the outer lip and the conch’s gritty, sandy brown aperture. The woman’s left hand felt a bumpy, rough texture as the conch was covered in solid tar everywhere except the inner lip and the beginning of the glossy, royal yellow body whorl that spanned as until the end of the siphonal canal. Spines that exceeded a foot poked out throughout the gunk. Ridges on the spire and body whorl surrounded bejeweled gemstones such as sapphire, onyx, lapis, and emerald. Colors of green, tan, and purple were also variegated in the tar that gave the appearance of a dark iridescence.

The woman’s feet and ankles were buried in the snow as she parted with the outskirts of a grass patch. She would find no refuge from the biting snow if she continued walking forward. Teeth chattered. Pins and needles festered.

However, the pain from the shell’s weight surpassed anything the weather afflicted. Everywhere she ached. Discomfort from the beginning of her journey gradually turned into pangs for her neck and shoulders. One leg buckled from the weight, so she let herself stop from her footslog.

The woman looked down onto herself. Grime was smeared all over her body. Snow hissed as it landed upon her skin, melting into droplets of water. The cold, dry air was overwhelming, allowing her to smell nothing. The only sound came from the howling wind and the crunching of the snow as she wiggled her numb feet. And in that sense, that only amplified her loneliness.

Her eyes started to water. A teardrop started to roll down her cheek. The woman’s hair obscured her despair if anybody happened to watch. At the same time, a blue, viscid liquid ran down the siphonal canal. The droplets parted with their surface, and they splashed onto the ground simultaneously.

After a few more drops, she composed herself. The woman craned her neck towards the conch. She couldn’t let go of this possession. Through her life with the item, she learned the intricacies that the conch held. Every detail meant something to her and she knew how they worked together as a composite. If she left her shell behind, her journey would have no purpose. She would only wander.

The woman’s tears dried up. She bounced to resecure the shell, and the shake emptied the remaining liquid left in the siphon. The pain persisted, but she accepted the pain as a constant that must be dealt with. She trudged through the gate resolutely.