The Baby in The Winter

(This is only a short-story with approximately 748 words, so any description may spoil/ruin the story)

The Baby in The Winter

Nine months of solemn pain. Nine months of regret. The fierce blizzard outside of the hospital, building a barrier, almost extracting life from the outside. Eliza, aged 17 years young, almost frozen in the solum winter, cradling her fragile, mistake of a child. Eliza steps out of the door, into the blistering cold, making her bare feet, that are as delicate as the baby, cringe away. The murmur of the baby only adds to the whistle of the wind. No one in sight. Eliza steps towards a rubbish bin, with only the faint light of the moon to light her way. She leaves a trail of blood within her footprints as she tears her skin on the razor like ice, which acts as a protective layer of skin on the road, cutting her skin as if it were as weak as a bubble, just one touch and the surface is broken. A tear trickles down Eliza’s face, which lands on the baby. The baby’s cry, now a begging like tone, does nothing to bring Eliza back to reality, nor does it help Eliza’s regret and sorrow. Eliza’s mind is somewhat like a rusty, broken, old clock; if one gear faults, then the entire clock stops instantly, like it’s frozen. Eliza takes a look back at the temporary home of a hospital. She doesn't know what her thoughts are. Disgust? Or even a form of happiness? No-one knows what’s going on inside of her head. As Eliza turns back towards the bin, she slowly places the baby beside it, as if to hope that someone will find her child. The now screaming child cries helpless in the snow, crying for it’s mother, in desperate need of survival. But the plea does nothing. Eliza’s gaze meets the desperate child’s. She hates to think that rape created this breathing bag of bones. She turns away without a second glance. Eliza is gone with the wind. Now the baby is alone. Alone like a lost wolf pup. Every man for himself. The baby, with only a blanket for warmth, cries for comfort. Cries for hope. Cries for help that will never come. As the night takes it toll on the world, the air starts to become still, with only a slight drift of snow in the sky. Every flake that drops on the now brittle skin, only adds to the flood of tears shed from its tear ducts. After taking the first breath, the baby brought hope to Eliza, but her shell never cracked, never set her free. The baby now cries itself to sleep, fighting to make it through the night. A baby's first sight of snow should be joy bringing, a sign of happiness, not this, not bringing death and abandoning. The faint sunlight that signals a new dawn for a new day bring no more heat. The blankets are now as solid as an ice cap, and the baby's eyelids don't dare to open. All energy drained, all heat absorbed. A man carrying a briefcase, wearing a long cape like coat stops at the head of the baby, as if he knows life is among the layers upon layers of the killer snow. Time is being drained, along with the baby's life. Instead of searching, he just kicks the snow behind him and takes off. Just like Eliza, the cloaked man is gone. His appearance fading with every step he takes. The man, leaving the baby helpless, leaving it to suffer, leaving it with pain from the coldness, pain from loneliness. The alone baby, who now has no energy to cry, is taking its final breaths as death himself approaches. Even death knows a baby should not suffer like this. Even he knows a mother like Eliza should not be allowed to have a child. The frost, which has now covered the baby, settles down, awaiting its destiny. The baby’s organs start to slow down, start to die. Frozen.


Two nurses, whom both can hardly see from their tears, run in search for the baby in the winter. After many stumbles, after many desperate hunts, they finally come across the baby. Nurse 1 snatches the baby from the snow, as if she were kidnapping a baby from their home, and clutches it near her breasts, in desperate hope to keep life circulating around the baby, Nurse 2 gingerly puts a hand on nurse 1's shoulder and says





"We're too late, she's gone."

Author's Note

This short story has not fully been proof read, so please mind any grammar errors that may be within this piece of text. I am wanting 100% honest feedback, so I am welcoming all positive comments and criticism.

Reviews

[TLK]

This reads more like some interpretive instructions to give to an actor -- like a storyboard.

Typo: 'solum' should be 'solemn'.

I think you need to read more short stories to an establish a tone that is more 'written event' than 'writing about events'... does this make sense?

In terms of experimental stuff that does away with conventional literary ways of doing things, I'd recommend Harlan Ellison and Alfred Bester. They're both science fiction, but that's just where they get their ideas -- their styles are independent.

[Liam Laing]

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/solum. Solemn is a type of feeling, such as unhappy, whereas solum is to do with the upper layers of soil.

I appreciate your comments, thank you :)

[Katie F]

I absolutely love the plot! However, I would have liked a longer story. While I understand that it is a short-story, I feel that it would have been even more meaningful had it been a longer passage. One in which the past is referenced more or even shown in flash-backs. As a reader I am fascinated to know more about why this happened...the motivation behind it. Also, I feel that you gave a little too many intelligent observations or feelings to the infant. While I fully understand that a baby would feel lonely and distraught, I felt that the way it was written made the baby seem like a child. The sentences were very short and some thoughts were very brief, which I understand because it is a short-story and maybe that was just the style you chose to write it in. Overall, the story was well done and was fascinating to read.

[Countrygirl]

It's good, very good. However, it seems like too much is happening all at once, like the sentences aren't long enough if that makes sense? I understand, some need to be to get the message heard, however some just aren't unnecessary. Like, it feels as if you're giving instructions, when the sentences should be drawn out.

[Liam Laing]

Unfortunately this was originally for a competition where the maximum word count was 750, meaning I couldn't draw out the sentences. However it is fair to state that they are very short.

Thank you