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  • Beatrice Iker

Micro Story #2: Dirty Snow

Updated: May 6, 2022

“I swear to God if you start crying I will riot,” Brick said. They laid as still as they could, their bindings ensuring it either way.

“Go to hell,” Cement hissed as they tried not to think of the prickly itchiness of living, forever still, with sand and gravel. They were quiet, good-mannered substances, but Cement has never wanted roommates.

“Argue at your own peril.” Stone’s voice was calming, albeit unnervingly so. “It will change nothing.”

All of their voices were becoming muddled, echoey in the cold sunlight. The snow fell at a leisurely pace, as if to either demonstrate its casual cruelty or demonstrate nothing at all.

This was, of course, the most horrifying motivation possible. What does one do when the thing that is suffocating you, freezing you, turning your very thoughts into jagged shards of ice - what does one do when that thing doesn’t even know you exist?

Cement shivers and in doing so, jostles the confines of its space with its roommates. The roommates are dormant, sleeping or pretending to. Either is fine, honestly.

Time moves. Slowly at first, then progressively faster until it is all they can think about. All they can taste. All they can smell and see and feel. That’s the best part, because then they can forget the cold.

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