I was walking next to the city wall carrying what I'd managed to glean from the abandoned house down the lane when the snow began. The village disappeared in a flurry of white, my headscarf disappearing with it. In front of me I could barely make out the orange gate that opened into the village proper. I was alone and afraid.
The past year had been a struggle to survive, everything gone in the flash that bore down on us that early evening. Since then we'd lost so many people to disease and starvation. We, the survivors, had buried them as best we could and then dispersed into groups of two or three, some heading out of town to find a way out, others, like myself, finding a hideyhole where I could be safe. Mine was in the basement of an old building that had once housed a family of four--all of them gone now.
When I saw a figure hurrying my way I backed up against the wall hoping they would simply pass me by, but this time I was not so lucky. Before I could cry out they'd ripped the meagre hunks of stale bread from my hands and thrown me to the gound. I lay there like dead, watching the blood from the cuts on my hands and arms from the rough stone beneath my body pool red against the white. I knew if I didn't rouse myself I would be dead by morning.
What do you see in this picture? Can you begin a story that leads you into the world of your imagination? Go for it! And if you want to post it into the comments, please do so!
Thanks for reading.
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