Play With The Prose 7, Challenge 11: Annette Baron

In the penultimate week of the season we had to write about cooking.

Cold.

The word used to have life. It meant earmuffs. It meant chicken noodle soup. Now it means everything. And nothing.

I can walk no further. I collapse in a grove. The trees provide no shelter, but their resilience is comforting. Sleep overcomes the pain.

.
.

I see a flash of white. I cannot feel my body, though I feel a surge of hope. Clarity returns and I realize it’s just snow. Hope is gone. Adrenaline remains.

I pull down some branches. Two of my fingers still have color. They strike my last match. Beautiful orange.

.
.

Fire almost out. I wish I could say I feel warmth. Just pain. I whisper a prayer. A squirrel falls into my lap, dead. An eagle flies off.

The squirrel warms by the fire until it doesn’t.

I manage to sink in my teeth. It’s the last time I feel pleasure.

.
.

It is night. The North Star shines.

.
.

Cold.

.
.

K: The prose is fine, but this doesn’t really take us very far. There’s no hope (at least not more than a sentence’s worth) and no reason to stand behind this narrator’s struggle because it’s all so defeated. However, the “I manage to sink in my teeth. It’s the last time I feel pleasure” bit brings this forward a little bit, as I could really feel this particular passage. BRONZE

CW: Well there was fire. And an animal. But I don’t think there was much cooking involved. I’m trying to determine if my last meal being a squirrel would really be an answer to prayer or a smack in the face. Sounds like the elements still won over here in the end too. This told quite a bit in a short space. I’m impressed. – GOLD

The judges have been very generous this season. In fact, with one week to go I have clinched a playoff spot! I’m currently in second place and can secure a bye if I put in a solid story down next week.

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