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By Michael N Lovdal
Terror. The wind howls as she blitzes across the sub-zero terrain. Her feet have never moved so fast, nor her heart beat so painfully hard. Her bare feet have long-since gone numb running through this snowy tundra. Her brown fur coat, speckled with grey and black dances in the wind. The tears streaming down her face seem to be freezing, blurring her vision. The snow is coming down harder now – soon she won't be able to see ahead of her at all, not that she could see much before. All that lies before her are more snow-covered hills, and snow-covered plains.
Fear. She hears them off in the distance. Hundreds of snarling, howling beasts with murder on their minds, and death in their hearts. They've grown much closer now; she thought that she had made up more ground than this. Perhaps only moments are left before the foul beasts will overtake her and this epic chase will be at an end. She grows tired. The fierce blizzard has finally worn her down. She slows and turns, facing the great horde that bears down on her.
Wolves. Great phantoms approach, fading in and out of plain site in the thick snowfall. Mere paces ahead, they sight their prey. The trail has lead them straight to her. Their tongues pant greedily as they come within reach of her. They leap and strike.
Death. A lone body falls to the ground, submerging into the thick snow. It is lifeless, defeated. The pack stands around, taking in the scene before them. They eye each other uneasily, with no certainty as to what to do next.
Life. She stands before her foe. The snow is falling more softly now, and the sun begins to break through the lifting clouds. Reluctantly, the pack disperses from her. She has won her right to rule in this land for another season, so they must return to exile until the appointed time. She sheds her coat to the ground and spreads her toes in the green grass. She smiles and laughs, dancing in the field of lilies. She spins around and around, letting the deep sun soak into her beautiful form. Birds sing in the distance, and a fawn drinks from a pond under his mother's loving supervision.
© 2008 Mike Lovdal.
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Congratulations! Your entry has been chosen as a "jewel" for this week. Click here to see your name and the others for the week. Great job!
Congrats on being jeweled! And well done-you still have a knack for amazing descriptions and wonderful storyline. ^_^
This is powerful writing. Well done!