Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25198412-20140719233412

The forest and mountains shimmer with white,

Winter has returned once again,

Snowflakes glide down effortlessly,

Blurring the vision in a soft ivory veil,

Trees come in every shape and color here,

Though now they are bare and iced,

Save for the green spiky leaves of the telltale pine,

They roam vast over the land,

Swaying slightly in the crisp breeze,

The scenery is calming,

An eerie sort of peace,

But few humans are welcome here,

Even with man’s modern sprawl this land remains untouched,

And for good reason,

The locals know what lurks just beyond eye sight,

They have learned that some places are better left alone,

For the dense powdered brush hides the wild things,

The primal things,

This is a land where reality and myth are one and the same,

And the wilderness closes in on all sides to confuse and entrap the reckless wanderer,

Cries echo into the night,

Though they aren’t from wolf or man,

The people lock their doors when the noise arises,

But they realize it will do no good,

They know what waits outside though no one dares to peek through the thick window curtains,

For as another wail rings out something moves within the night,

A looming shadow flashes over the white land,

Sickly thin and yet as tall as the pines,

Though this is not a tree,

The smell of decay rides on the breeze,

A horrid scent of rot and frost,

Hot foul breath passes over ridged teeth and festering, blackened lips

Its guttural moans shake the snow off of the bark,

Then the noise suddenly stops, and the figure silently vanishes into the timberland,

As the sun rolls back into the sky it forces out the nightmares that ran rampant in the darkness,

All seems well,

The isolated little town is filled with the bustle of everyday life as shops begin to open and people begin to stir,

Chattering and laughing voices ring throughout the air,

It’s as if nothing had ever happened,

Yet any who listen can hear the emptiness in their speech, the lack luster in their chuckles,

Still they try desperately to fool themselves, hoping it will bring some tiny bit of peace,

Earlier in the day- when the sun’s rays had first begun to provide their protection- a small group of hunters set out,

The party is wary to remember where they place each step,

For nature is capricious and blinding storms come suddenly and unforgivingly here,

Bows and rifles weigh heavily in their palms, ready to strike at the first sign of prey,

But the game is gone,

Deer, elk, and moose have moved on or fallen to winters harsh law,

Times are hard and they will only worsen before they get better,

The huntmaster signals for the team to stop as he points to something laying half sunken into the snow,

It is a lone skull, a human skull,

Still very fresh and picked clean to reveal glazed off-white bone,

Its empty eye sockets staring into the forest forever more,

The rest of the body is gone, taken into the vast and frozen wilds,

And the ominous snow has hidden any trace and track,

The only other things marking this grisly grave are shreds of ruined clothing and splotches of red wet,

Grim looks plaster over the hunter's faces as they quickly pay their respects to the fallen,

But their fear and remorse is not for the deceased- for they, in some way, have found release,

It is for themselves,

For now it has grown,

And its hunger will never be sated,

No matter how much it gorges on the flesh of what it used to be,

No,

It will feast and elongate and the endless hunger will never cease,

And for a brief moment one can’t help but wonder if the kill was silent,

Or if there was a loud smacking of lips as bits of bloody meat where ripped from those bones,

Then one is lead to question if there is any hope,

Or if it’s inevitable that they die on this frigid tundra,

Of loneliness or of hunger or of cold,

After a short time the group once again returns to the hunt,

But they know there is no food to be found,

Silent realization shines in there fearful, defeated eyes,

Knowing that nothing will grace their families plates tonight,

And it will be that way tomorrow, and the next day,

They never buried the remains nor performed any sort of ceremony for what was left of the unnamed corpse,

But for one young hunter an even worse fate awaits,

He is so hungry,

And can’t stop the rolling wind from whispering in his ear,

Speaking of a dark taboo to quell his aching stomach,

With these twisted, wicked cravings comes only one hushed word,

"Wendigo." 