This story came fourth in our ultra-short story competition earlier this year. The judges’ comments included ‘ I liked this’, ‘another Gothic-style tale’ and ‘effectively chilling’.<\/p>\n
I could just about hear my own footsteps as my soles crushed the frosted grass beneath them. Each single step sent a chill down my body as the fresh December air bit at my face and enveloped my ungloved hands. I thrust them deeply into the pockets of last winter’s coat, and my fingers traced the outlines of the objects. But my mind didn’t register what they were – it was somewhere else entirely, though where I couldn’t quite decide. It is amazing how trivial observations can provide such a relieving distraction.
\nAfter all that has happened – is still happening – my only interest is how the bare branches of the trees resemble the long, bony fingers of Death himself. Pointing upwards towards the ominously stark white sky, as if promising a different fate, or perhaps threatening one. It was impossible to decide. I felt numb, the chill morning air emphasising my mood and encouraging it. I continued to walk, not going anywhere in particular, and barely even aware of my own existence, seeing everything around me except myself.
\nIt’s cold now, I feel it, but it isn’t refreshing. I can see the wind blowing through the branches of my haunting tree, but it escapes me.
\nThey say that when you die, there is a bright light or a tunnel, or maybe the said Reaper comes. That didn’t happen to me, but as I walked down the deserted streets and across the familiar fields and paths, I knew that I had died.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
This story came fourth in our ultra-short story competition earlier this year. The judges’ comments included ‘ I liked this’, ‘another Gothic-style tale’ and ‘effectively chilling’. I could just about hear… Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[24,79],"tags":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7615"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7615"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7615\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7615"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7615"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7615"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}