The Negev desert was the last place anyone might expect a snowstorm. There were no signs the weather would, or could, shift so quickly but it did. From dry heat to arctic winds in a matter of minutes, and it appeared the safest place was being buried up to my neck in freezing soil. The sky had become a dark grey haze full of snowflakes blowing wildly in every direction. The sun and its light had been engulfed so easily, it felt like it never existed.

The sand and gravel between my fingers had become so cold it was turning hard. I tried to move my fingers, shift some of the cold coarse grains, but my arms were numb from the elbow down and the rest of my body was following suit. Beside me, my squad leader had already lost consciousness, and was probably dead. He’d stopped humming the song he used to sing to his little girl to put her to sleep. He couldn’t fight the delirium, let alone the biting cold, and all I could do was watch him slip away. Even though I couldn’t feel them, I kept ordering my hands to move, claw, dig, do anything that might help to avoid his fate. I didn’t have any songs to carry me over.

A gust of cold wind hit me square in the face like a cold hard slap. It hurt, but it also kept me awake, alert. It reminded me that I didn’t want to die frozen in a cold, sandy grave. The numbness wasn’t helping me either. I couldn’t feel if I was making progress or not, and with every anxious second, the panic was rising. Use the only muscle worth using, I kept telling myself over and over. My mind was still active, and that meant I had a chance.

After several agonising seconds commanding my body to simply twitch, I felt my left shoulder move suddenly, then my right, and before long I was wriggling wildly, shifting gravel. Pieces of it were clumping together due to the moisture in the air. I had minutes, at best.

Terrible gusts of wind continued to beat against my face, dissolving my spirit. I wanted to give in, and I was just about to, when a small section of the clouds broke. For just a moment, a ray of light warmed my cheek. It was just what I needed. I imagined my body moving violently, thrashing freely and it began to work. My left shoulder came out of the ground and I felt the ends of my fingers. It was like coming up for air after falling in rapid waters.

I fought harder and freed one arm, then used my remaining strength to dig the other one out. It was tiring, but my internal organs felt like they were getting warmer, and that hurt as much as it made me happy. The storm continued to rage all around me and I realised that I was running on borrowed time. My only chance was to head to where the militia were camped and beg them for shelter, a silly idea considering the circumstances but based on the available options, dying quickly in a blaze of gunfire felt better than dying slowly and painfully.

I retraced my steps to where I thought the camp was and stumbled towards it. The snow underfoot was getting thicker by the second. Finally, I reached a snowhill with a door handle. It was the camp, it had to be!

I pushed through, falling inside, the last of my strength depleted. I wasn’t on the ground for long before a pair of hands dragged my limp body completely inside and I heard what I thought was the door close and snow crashing down, blocking the doorway. The next sensation I had was warmth.

Several voices spoke in accented English, though it was hard for me to follow the conversation in my groggy state. The ends of my fingers and toes were on fire and the pain let me know I was very much alive. I could feel a heavy blanket and smell the aroma of chicken broth wafting around the small room. The voices weren’t threatening as I expected, instead they were warm, welcoming. These people didn’t want me dead, they were trying to save my life. I knew right then and there that when I regained my strength, I was no longer going to blindly follow orders.

I imagined my squad would assume if the militia hadn’t killed me, the cold weather would. I was free, and I hoped this one time, they’d leave a man behind.

–
By Stefan:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Head Ant challenged me with “You are snowed in in an area that doesn’t get snowstorms, much less snow. Tell about your positive experiences during the storm.” and I challenged kgwaite with “You’re a hero, so act like one. “

He had been playing in these woods since he was a small boy. It was in these woods that he had defeated armies of imaginary knights, slain dragons, even discovered and conquered new lands. These woods were home to him and he often sought solace amongst the silence of the trees.

His favorite place was a small opening towards the center of the forest. The clearing was carpeted in soft grass and decorated with patches of bluebells and snowdrops. Here, he could contemplate life, and retreat from the ever-increasing demands of his father. The latest obsession was marrying him off to a local maiden that Armus had no desire for.

Armus began to take off his shirt so he could stretch out in the tall grass, when something flickered in the sunlight and caught his eye. But before he could focus—it was gone. Strange, he thought, and plucked a long blade of grass to gnaw. But there, closer than he realized, was Nissa. She had been impatiently waiting for his return.

Nissa made herself comfortable atop a white snowdrop, resting her head in her hands. She watched as the sun glistened on the smooth muscles of his chest. She leaned forward, longing to reach out, just to touch him and have him touch her. She was so caught up in the moment that she lost her balance and went tumbling to the ground. She landed in a heap, flustered and mortified. Well, that was quite un-fairylike, she sighed. Thankfully, Armus did not notice. What would it take to get him to finally notice her? That was the question she had pondered since the day she set eyes on him, many moons ago.

–
By Kat:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, lisa challenged me with “Write a story about the two mostly unlikely people you can think of falling in love. ” and I challenged Heather with “Write about the fickle finger of fate.“

Shad hadn’t been to see him in a long time. She just couldn’t do it. Today was different, though. She just got in the car and drove. Turning and stopping where it felt right. That feeling led her here.

The tires of her old car crunched under the gravel as she drove through the gate. The wind felt great. The sun was shinning. ‘It’s like the prefect day’, she thought, putting on her sunglasses and parking the car.

She opened the door, swung her feet around from behind the wheel and stopped. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I should go back’, she thought, looking back at her steering wheel. But something was holding her there. She knew she had to do it.

She got out the car and closed the door. She didn’t have to walk very far to find him.

She knelt before his grave.

“I know it’s been awhile, Dave. I’m sorry,” she said.

–

By Heather:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kat challenged me with “Write about the fickle finger of fate” and I challenged Head Ant with “Writing it all down just wasn’t enough…”

“I’ve never been afraid of needles.”

“Okie dokie,” he said, “here it goes,” and pushed the needle into my pulsing vein.

I flinched as the needle found its mark. Steady hand; more than one stick with this puppy and I’d be bleeding all over the floor. I felt the contents slipping into my bloodstream and away, to be carried throughout my body. Supposedly, the vaccine would protect me from the enemy’s mind-attacks. Laugh all you like, where I was going it wasn’t even the subject of jokes whispered on bad nights to dispel fear, the way other things were.

My orders were simple: Survive the mindslippers, get a fat retirement. Everything else was just detail. Even winning the war didn’t really matter, according to some. The fight was all I or anyone else had ever known. We were taught from birth to love the fight, to seek the fight, to breathe the fight. The only way out was to fly, and even that came with risks.

–

By Bran mac Feabhail:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Amanda challenged me with “I’ve never been afraid of needles.” and I challenged Leo with “Include a leaf and an electric socket. This can be literal or metaphorical. Go wild.“

In my life, I have let someone go for what I thought was their own good. My head told me that I was doing them a favor. My head at the time and for much of my previous existence to that point, was astonishingly full of shit. Despite this, its arguments were compelling enough to convince someone (me) that chivalry demanded that I save this other person, this delicate flower, from what would inevitably be a life of pain and woe. I left. She was devastated and confused. Not my finest hour.

The other instance, of which I lack experience, involves letting go of the person you love because they are a physical, emotional, and/or spiritual vacuum. Love holds on in spite of their ability to make you yearn for the sweet release of death. In stark difference to the above case, your sense of self-worth and self-preservation take precedence. This is healthy where the above scenario is decidedly unhealthy, bordering on the kind of destructive neurosis known only to Jews and chihuahuas (it’s how I’ve always explained their bulging eyes and shaky dispositions).

But the question: How does one look at the woman they love and convince themselves to walk away? The only answer I can imagine without some sort of background for context: There has to be a part of you that wants to burn. Because no matter the reason, good or bad, sound or insane, it will burn. You’ll pull the trigger on the starting gun and the sound that will resonate in your mind for days or maybe years will be, ‘What if?’, and all of those little demons with their implements of pokey destruction will breach the castle gates and they will beat the hell out of your frontal lobe. For a while, anyway. It won’t be good.

And then again, it won’t be so bad, either. At least not in hindsight. Time heals all wounds, etc., etc. Love is dangerous because the contrast between pleasure and pain is black and white. There is no gray. People who say they’re ‘kind of in love’ either aren’t at all or are fooling themselves. When you are in love, however, giving up on it, regardless of why, burns. It takes either a coward or the bravest person alive to willingly throw themselves flame-ward. It’s also instructive, however, to remember that in either case, love was felt, even if only in passing. In this regard, it’s better to burn than to never have seen the fire at all.

–

By Sir:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Chimnese challenged me with “How do you look at the woman you love, and tell yourself that it’s time to walk away? ” and I challenged Jordan with “I killed a man with a flugelhorn. Not out of spite, but because he told me I wouldn’t.“

Resting her head on her hand she continued to watch Trevor as he shoved fries in his mouth and played with his new Happy Meal toy. Her mind drifting, Cassie couldn’t help but wonder how her life had gone so far off track. Just a mere two days ago she thought her life was perfect – loving husband, wonderful son, successful career; little did she know the loving husband part was a big lie.

For the zillionth time in the past 48 hours she replayed the life changing conversation in her head again…

Looking up from the chili she was stirring she smiled at her husband as he came through the side door. Walking over to him she planted a kiss on his cheek, “Hey sweetheart. How was your day?”

Ignoring her question, Dan looked around and asked, “Where’s Trevor?”

Starting to detect something was wrong, Cassie replied, “His friend Michael asked him to eat dinner over. Why?”

His eyes darted around nervously, never quite making contact with hers. “Cassie, sit down. We need to talk.”

She slowly made her way to the table and sat down. Cassie had never seen him act like this before and it made her uneasy. “What’s going on Doug? You’re scaring me.”, she asked, hardly able to hear herself speak over her pounding heart.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this Cassie, but I want a divorce.”, Dan said, avoiding eye contact with her.

“You what?”, I gasped in shock.

“I want a divorce.”, he quietly repeated.

“I- I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand… I thought we were happy.”, Cassie stammered in complete shock.

Dan looked up; his cold, determined eyes finally meeting hers. “I know, but I’ve been pretending for a few years now. I’m sorry, but I’m just not cut out to be a husband or a father.”

“You what?” she yelled angrily, unable to fully grasp what he was saying, but knowing she didn’t like it.

“I know you’re angry with me now, but I hope one day you can forgive me and realize what I’m doing is for the best.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Do you remember that business trip California I went on a month ago?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with you wanting a divorce?” she asked confused.

“Well it wasn’t really a business trip; it was an interview for a new job. I got a call from them today saying that it’s mine if I want it.” he told her somewhat sheepishly.

“So what are you saying, Dan?” she asked angrily.

“What I’m saying is…I’m going to take it. I’ll be packed and out by Thursday evening; just in time to catch the Red Eye to California.”, he stated, somewhat cooly.

Dumfounded, she simply stared at him for a minute in shock. “I just don’t understand…I thought you loved me and loved being a father to Trevor. Where is this coming from?” she asked, finally finding her voice.

“I haven’t been happy for awhile, Cassie. You’ve just been too blind to see it.” He responded in a matter of fact, almost business-like tone.

“I-I just don’t know what to say. Is there no talking you out of this? Maybe we could try marriage counseling?” she asked, hoping there was something she could do to fix the life that was crumbling around her…to change his mind.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve made decision. Do you want to tell Trevor or shall I?” he replied without feeling.

“I’ll do it.” She said, worrying how this cold man in front of her would break such heart wrenching news to their son. She figured it would be safer if she told him; this man before her was not the husband she loved and knew; therefore she couldn’t trust him to handle such a delicate situation.

“Very well then. I’ll be staying in a hotel until Thursday and packing while Trevor is at school. I would appreciate it if you keep him out of the house Thursday evening while I pack up the last of my things. I’ll be sure to be out of here by 7:30 p.m. so you can have in home by bedtime.”, he told her.

Hearing his cold and uncaring words, the tears that had been threatening to fall silently started to roll down her cheeks. “Well I guess you have it all planed then.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dan looked at her, unaffected by her tears. “My divorce lawyer will be in touch once I get settled in California. Goodbye Cassie; I wish you and Trevor the best.” Then having said his piece, he got up, packed an overnight bag and walked out the back door without so much as a glance in Cassie’s direction.

She was still sitting at the table more than a hour later when the phone rang, making her jump a mile high in her seat. Knowing it had to be Trevor calling for a ride home, she took a deep breath and gathered herself. Walking to the stove she turned off the burnt chili and calmly answered the phone.

“Hey Mom?”

Trevor’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “Yes, sweetheart?” she replied, forcing herself to keep her emotions at bay.

“I finished my meal; can I please get an ice cream?” he asked, hopefully.

Smiling she reached into her purse and gave him a five dollar bill. “Here you go sweetie, but make sure you bring back the change this time.” She laughed, remembering the last time when he left the change with the cashier in his excitement over the ice cream.

“I promise, Mom!” he giggled and ran off to the counter.

Cassie glanced at her watch; it was almost 7:30 p.m., which meant Dan was almost completely moved out. It all seemed so surreal to her; like a nightmare that she would one day wake up from.

Looking up she watched Trevor bouncing with excitement as he ordered his ice cream from the cashier. Cassie had no idea how she was going to break the news to him, but she knew he was going to start asking questions soon. All she knew was that she would do whatever she could to keep him this happy. It wasn’t going to be easy being a single mom, but she was committed to being the best single mom she could be.

–

By lisa:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Allyson challenged me with “Write a piece in which the entirety of the plot takes place in a fast food restaurant.” and I challenged Kat with “Write a story about the two mostly unlikely people you can think of falling in love. “

One would wonder where she was stuck, or how she got stuck, but not me, I heard the whole story, well something that resembles the whole story…just read on, you’ll see.

My friend Elizabeth was driving in her car one day heading to the grocery store. It was drizzling, but nothing bad, as she hopped into her car to get some food. On her way there she realized that she forgot her cell phone and all she had with her was the $20 she kept in the glove box for an emergency.

She proceeded to the store and was just going to get the necessities and then head home. She walked into the store and picked up milk, bread, eggs and some lunch meat, then headed out. On her way to the car she heard a storm rolling in and figured she best get home before the winds picked up and she was in a ditch. Well, little did she know that ditch was waiting for her. About two miles up the road the wind picked up and it also picked up her little Volvo and shoved it right into the ditch after rolling it over twice and causing a long branch of a tree to fall onto its roof as well.

Elizabeth had no way to call for help, was pretty far off the beaten path for anyone to hear her and her car was trapped. “What am I going to do?” she muttered to herself over and over after thanking God she was still alive and well.

She tried the drivers side door; it didn’t open. Reached over to the passenger door, no luck. Climbed into the tiny backseat and tried the hatch back, lucky for her, it opened. So, now she was out of the Volvo, standing in the rain and as she looked into her trunk all she saw was an axe to which she muttered “Crap!”. She figured her husband must have cleaned out the car recently and all he left her was the axe after he went and chopped wood last week.

At this point she kind of trailed off (since we were drinking wine) and I am not sure exactly how she put that axe to use so that she is still with us today, but who am I to question a story about a woman and an axe?

–

By Joelyn:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, SAM challenged me with “All she had was an axe.” and I challenged Rain (k~) with “April Showers Bring…..”

Oh, they’re perfectly good, nice and straight only slightly discolored (thanks soda and coffee). As long as I stay away from certain shades of lip gloss you wouldn’t even notice.

What I hate are my gaps. It’s like my whole mouth is full of teeth that are a size or two too small so I have all these gaps in my top teeth. I begged my parents for braces when I was younger but my mom had the same gaps growing up and her wisdom teeth coming in had pushed everything together. She assured me that would happen for me too, so why spend the money?

Well, I’m 34 and my “wissies” are still nice and snug, buried in my gums.

I should have paid closer attention to some of the family pictures we have. I have the same smile as my Great-great grandpa Arlie. His never closed up. My first-cousin has the same teeth. But she got braces and they looked great! I remember being so jealous at the time. But, with the confidence of youth she failed to wear her retainer and now you’d never know she once had perfect teeth. It makes me so mad! I wouldn’t have squandered the money and time of braces!

I’ve been thinking about getting braces now, but being poor and in debt, it seems foolish to tack on more debt for something so superficial? I guess I could do what my grandma did in the 50′s and just have them all ripped out and go for dentures. Yeah, maybe not.

I really, really hate my teeth.

–

By Tobie:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with “Teeth.” and I challenged stacie with “That first sip.”

“Yes, I do.” I answered, bringing the gun to the side of my head again.

“No. You don’t believe in suicide.” The mouth in the mirror twisted into a sneer and the voice rang out in sing-song. “Suiciders go to Hell. Suiciders go to Hell.”

I pulled the gun away from my head.

“Shut up, Father Dowling. Shut up! The world IS better off without me. I’m a fuck up. I’m doing this.” I brought the gun to my mouth and kissed it. The mirror image pushed it away.

“Over my dead body!” The mirror screamed. A staccato of laughter filled the room.

“Now there’s irony,” I said. I placed the nose of the gun on my temple again, the cold steel soothing my hot flesh. “One flinch of my finger and it would all be over.”

“But you don’t need to do this.” The mirror whimpered, not touching the gun this time. “Not like this. Who said it has to be so violent?”

“As if suicide is peaceful! There’s always some weapon. Some choose pills. Some choose razor blades. I choose this. One pull of the trigger and it’s over.” I switched the gun to my other hand, angling the gun under my ear this time. “No chance of returns. One movement of applied pressure and boom! It’s done.”

The mirror whimpered again. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I have no peace. My words are weapons to my soul. I must do this.”

A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. My eyebrow held it captive for a moment before it splashed on the rise of my cheek, rolled down my face, and escaped to the floor. I switched hands again, positioning the gun at my temple, pressing the nose in the hollow. Slight pressure on the trigger made it click and I jumped.

“You don’t have to do this.” My voice whispered back from the mirror. Tears streamed down the mirror’s face.

My finger tensed on the trigger. I looked square into the mirror’s eyes. “Yes. I do.”

–

By SAM:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Michael challenged me with “‘The lesson I take from this place is that the person who wishes for peace does not hide even a needle as a weapon. Even when driven into the need for self defense, if you have a weapon, you are qualified to fight-maybe-but you are not qualified to pray for peace.’ -Dr. Paul Nagai, atomic bomb survivor” and I challenged Joelyn with “All she had was an axe.”

“Everyone is busy or bored today,” I think, finding the roads so empty. A brown leaf falls near my feet as I walk, a spring in my step, thinking of which song I’d dance to when I returned back. Autumn is definitely starting, I think.

I hear the screech of wheels, and turn around to see a black Omni speeding towards me.

“Everyone’s in a hurry,” I whisper to myself and turn back to find someone inches from me.

“Watch where you’re going, moron,” I say and try to walk on, but he holds me back, and before I can react or shout, places a handkerchief to my nose. I fall unconscious.

I don’t know how long it has been since I was last conscious. I feel around for my watch, only to remember that I’d forgotten to wear it that morning. I rub my eyes and stretch my hands.

“This is strange. Shouldn’t I be tied up or something?” I wonder. “This must be their first time kidnapping someone.”

I’m still in the car. I try the door and it slides open. The sunlight hits my eyes hard, and I see lots of people there, and the sound of water nearby.

“Hey! Look who woke up,” I hear a voice and turn around to see many of you smiling at me, sitting on two large sheets, and having a picnic.

“Who are you? Why have you brought me here?” I ask.

“Well, you told us to, actually.”

“Gah! What rubbish. I’d never tell someone to kidnap me.”

“Well, you said so. “The only way my parents will let me attend a blog-meet alone is for someone to kidnap me.” Those were your exact words too,” you say and burst out laughing.

“Leo?” I enquire, stunned, a mixture of anger, surprise and joy that must be evident on my face.

“Oh she remembers,” one of you reply back.

“What the crap! I was kidding and you guys actually pulled it off? My parents will murder you,” I shout, furiously.

“Oh that’s not very likely, Sonu. I texted your mom and she texted back. She’s mainly looking to murder you,” you reply, and I sit down, flummoxed.

“Cheer up, she’s not THAT worried. She called up and told us to take good care of you, lest you slip and go down the waterfall,” I hear you say and (try to) stare daggers at you.

I am hungry, so I just reach for a cream bun from one of the plates and wolf it down. I’m determined not to smile the whole day, but it’s difficult with so many friends nearby who are eager to pull my leg a lot. I break, just after breakfast, and grudgingly smile.

Simsa is a nice place. I’ve been there before of course, but not with so many talkative blog-friends. It’s the first time I’m meeting all of them too, so it sort of makes it more special. Leo, Aarthi, Nethra, Shravan, Senthil and some others who are their friends… I am having so much fun that I don’t notice the time going by so quickly.

By nightfall, I’m tired but I won’t forget the day for sure. As I sit on the couch in my hall, listening to my parents giving me a lecture, my heart is reliving those little moments. I plug the charger into the electrical socket and head off to bed, ready to recharge my energy while my mobile charges too. My mother still follows me, her voice nearly gone from the strain of talking so much.

“Oh leave it Mom, they had kidnapped me, I didn’t go voluntarily,” I offer in a half-voice, falling in a heap on the bed.

“Yeah right… as if I’m going to believe that,” I hear you say but at this moment, I don’t really care.

I’m going to fall asleep and perhaps dream of a day when this day happens all over again.

–

By Leo:

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bran macFeabhail challenged me with “Include a leaf and an electric socket. This can be literal or metaphorical. Go wild. ” and I challenged Grace O’Malley with “My first drop of ink was my last..(Begin your post with these words)”