The spotted youth brings thumb and forefinger together. Behind the cowshed, the girl gives a vague smile and asks, “What’s the difference?” This is another voice, ale-sluggish and cracking like ice. “Do you want the Path of Pins or the Path of Needles?” The mildness intrigues her but more so, the teeth. The girl thinks about that voice all the night through. Under the gentleness, the voice has teeth. It is a honeyed voice, caught somewhere on the rocks between rich contralto and dulcet tenor. The low, pleasant voice slides into her ear. You’ll do the same, if you know what’s good for you. We all abided by them and never once complained. We were born with their curves etched into our bones. Lithe grey shadows slip through the trees. A basket hangs dispiritedly from her arm. Little footprints point the way back to a clutch of hovels she peers half-dazzled through shadow and snow-flash. There is always such a girl, walking alone. The girl walks through the woods, boots crunching the crusted snow. Frozen earth sleeps without dreaming brittle sunlight breaks and scatters in gasps between the trees. In the very heart of winter, the forest holds its breath. In the bitterness of the woods, the wolves are howling. It is a northern country winter and cold weather you’ve heard this before.
Series: From the Lost Travelers’ Tour Guide.
People of Colo(u)r Destroy Science Fiction!.
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