A Frozen Apocalypse

I guess end of the world situation.

She watched with silent intent as the fire cast dancing, wicked shadows akin to the cackling ghouls of hell itself. The fresh kill roasted over the hot flames, sending out an alluring aroma that brought back such fond memories of a time nearly forgotten by even time himself. A period of green things and laugher, her own family free and happy. 

No longer. The plant life had slowly begun to whither, and the snow had begun to fall. Not the pure white the children of the past had so enjoyed, but a downcast grey that quenched even the most stalwart heart.

Her loyal companion lay beside her, the striking blue eyes never appearing to blink. The stark white fur was bunched, muscles tensing to spring at the first sign of danger. Suddenly, Twila's pointed ears ran flat against her head. Teeth bared, eyes steely, it would take much to quel her in such an agressive state. "Twila, sitzen." The flow of my natural tongue so refreshing. She peered at the approaching figure with renewed vigil. his shambling, uncaucious movements were no match for her attuned styler. She gingerly fingered the double-sided blade hidden beneath the folds of her thick jacket.

"State your business, sir, or you will be promptly disposed of." It had not taken long for her to assumer the peculiar accent of A Russian man. In the dim light of the fire, herself bundled in many folds, she could pass for a smaller man. 

"Jus' eh los' oul lookin' fer sime refuge." It was the most awful British accent her ears had ever been bombarded upon. For that was the distress of the situation. He seemed to combine his words,  never quite saying the first or last letter of every word. His vowels mispronounced, the wretched speech bothering her. She had always been such a grammar freak. 

"And how did you come upon me?" His smile revealing yellow, crooked teeth.

Definitely British.

"Like I 'aid, jis' lookin' fer refuge. Iffin ye got a problem I cin' lev." The small, brown, piglike eyes stared hungrily at the haunch of meat. 

Author's Note

FULL OPINION

Reviews

[Patrick Dunne]

Most young writers, myself included, tend to rush a good story. They tell it so fast, with so little detail, its as if they think the reader knows the parts left in their mind. You, however, do nothing of the sort. This brief passage of time is stopped, frozen and put on display. The descriptive language and mystery of just these few lines make the story seem to last much longer. More importantly, it left me constructing scenarios to explain this interaction and continue it.