By L. L. Garcia
January had been unusually warm this year, but today, the woods stood frozen. Wintergreen berries bowed their heads. Gnarled branches groaned above. Grace ignored their complaints, her eyes watering but fixed on the blanketed path that climbed ahead.
The world was muted but for Grace’s raspy breathing and measured steps, neither of which hushed her mind. Last night’s fortune had read, No one of intelligence resents the inevitable. Maybe not, Grace mused, but how many lifetimes do we waste fighting it?
With that, a splintering echoed from the beech-maple canopy. Grace stood still and—finally—resisted the urge to look up.
I really like the poetic language, the final hike. The micro and macro in this story.
I like the way this is written. My favourite phrase being ‘Gnarled branches groaned above. Grace ignored their complaints,’
Almost a prose poem with its tone and descriptive elements. I like “blanketed path” and “wintergreen berries bowed their heads”. Nice.