Himalaya

A razor-sharp gust of wind slices my throat as I peer the break of dawn. Weakly I step out my tent only to cast an array of a white prison. My lungs squeeze the dreadful, sub-zero, icy air that the Himalayas have to offer a stranded journalist. I rummage through the planes crash site to only find the last Coca-Cola can. My hands so petrified, I sit and crack it open. The only warmth at this point is my tears that gently pave their way down my cracked cheeks. Still holding the can, I crawl into my tent to see her again.

Author's Note

pls comment your thoughts
check out part two