I vowed to write at least 250 words of fiction every day this year, so here’s the first attempt. I tried scouring some writing prompt sites but they left me feeling despair, so I just mulled things over, remembered how much I hate snow and the results are below (352 words).
This is the first part of what could be a scene, a story or a big budget Hollywood production. I can’t say when I’ll write Part 2. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not. It’s a surprise.
A Walk in the Snow, Part 1
It is very quiet in the snow.
That’s how I hear the person walking behind me. I stop and a moment later the person stops. It is silent again.
I am walking down a service road that’s about two kilometers long. Its main function is to provide access to railway workers and park staff, but there’s little vehicle traffic on it most days. Tonight it’s covered in virgin snow and I’m up to my knees in the stuff after an early winter blast. My breath frosts in front of me, a steamy cloud that drifts up into a clear, dark sky and disappears.
I’m about halfway down the road, heading toward South Street, the main road that runs through my neighborhood. I live a few blocks east of South. I like telling people that, then watch their faces as they try to process it.
It’s bright enough to make my way without a flashlight. There is no artificial light here, just the stars dotting the black above and the snow shimmering around me.
I became aware of the footsteps–more the sound of someone pushing their way through the snow, really–a few minutes earlier. Twice I’ve tested by stopping and the person following has also stopped. It’s hard to escape the sensation that I am prey being stalked. The snow is just deep enough to make a quick escape impossible. The closest things to weapons I carry are my house keys and smartphone. I keep my breathing calm, knowing this person is probably close enough to see the puffs. Don’t show signs of panic. I gaze up at the sky, as if I’m looking for a constellation. Casual. Curious. Inconspicuous.
Maybe.
I resume walking and count one thousand one, one thousand two. The footsteps resume behind me, shushing through the snow. It will take at least fifteen minutes to reach South Street, where the road is plowed, the sidewalks shoveled and regular traffic passes by. It seems very far away. I strain to hear cars but it’s late and all I hear are my steps and the ones mirrored behind me.
(to be continued)
