Frozen fingers – Part of the Little Blue Marbles Series

Winter that year had a strong bite, punishing people by freezing their cars solid and pushing needles in their bones through insulation, feeble house heating, and layers of woollen personal protection. Snow didn’t come. Most in the area had to decide between having a full stomach or feeling their toes and fingers at least once in a while. Freya’s parents made no exception, but unfortunately they were inclined differently: her dad kept warm on cheap beer and her mother plugged in the electric heater whenever he’d fall asleep.

Freya had just turned thirteen the day they opened the pond to skating. She had always loved to skate, but never got any good at it. Having two left feet would have been less of a problem than hers for skating, assuming the ice skates would fit. Her problem was functional rather than conformational as something in her brain stopped her balancing on one leg and pushing with the other. Her ability never improved and she was stuck awkwardly shuffling on the sides with the beginners every time she skated, every year the pond froze.

Her disappointment turned to desolation and, for this particular birthday, to resentment. She went to the pond with her run-of-the-mill skates in her bag, but on the way threw them in the bin. She climbed the small hill found next to the pond, sat on the frozen ground and looked down on the cheerful throng. The sun was setting behind, leaving her observation point in the shadows.

A lilac haze started slowly perspiring from between the frigid blades of grass, oozing like dense droplets out of the hill’s pores. Something started tensing deep within, something which was out of place, vast, much too large for the physical dimensions of the modest relief. For minutes dripping like spoiled honey from a dying hive, this vague curdling of the earth’s marrow was spreading with a precise rate, not so much up, but out. It grew out of the perimeter and started dawdling towards the pond. Immense but somehow lacking will, it was heading that way reluctantly. A sharp gust of wind marked a shift in growth from size to kind. It was now pulsating, ripples spreading from an epicentre of blood drops hitting an impregnable but malleable resin. The earth was losing control, something else was dictating, prescribing evolutionary course. The hill was growing taller, rising, escaping the sedimentary, ancient foundation it used to stand on. It was drawing back from the inchoate creation, yielding to what it seemed to want. The growing darkness was lit by the wispy lilac tendrils surrounding and permeating the frozen pond. They were somehow growing backward in that direction, like an entangled sillage left by the throng of skaters. Time passed slowly. The hill became enormous, a mountain. The pond grew deeper, the ice insubstantial. The air warmer, thicker, heavier. The mass of curious but reluctant tendrils grew so dense it congealed, it became solid, having no choice but to yield to pulsating. Pulsating with no clear purpose or intention.

An hour passed. Freya’s heart was beating with a strong thump, the echo resounding in her painful temples. She was frozen solid, but her fingers were screaming in pain, still alive. It was dark. She then wandered with lilac-glowing embers of hate tucked away between the folds in her mind.

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