Creativewritingportfolio (1)

“Eight.”

She strikes the tree again, burning through more of the trunk. “Seven.”

The rolling snow drenches her hair as the first drops hit her in the face. The cold sting of icicles sheer the flesh from her cheek. “Six.”

In a third, titanic blow, she topples the tree. “Five.”

The leaves rattle as snow piles on top of them. “Four.”

Then, as the tree knocks itself against the hill, the canopy of leaves forms a leevy, redirecting the avalanche, and saving Savannah from being crushed under it’s weight. The snow forms large piles around the sides of the trees, but staying out of the center, where Savannah watches the avalanche continue down the slope of the mountains.

By the end, she’s there alone, terrified of what else might be in store for her.

“Well done, indeed.” Arman appears out of nowhere, standing three feet deep in snow.

“Am I finished yet?”

“The brotherhood is never finished,” Arman draws a pistol from his holster. It’s sleek, modern, and probably advanced beyond what even she could imagine.

He fires a bullet at her, obviously aiming to miss.

“You better get your ass out of the snow if you ever plan on defeating Damien Boyd.”

“Doesn’t sound like a name I should care about,” Savannah says.

“Oh, but you should. He’s the man you’re after. He’s your target.”

“Isn’t our target the American government?”

“The American’s are falling! Damien Boyd, or as you might know him, ‘Charlemagne’, is making quick work of Voltaire.”

Savannah freezes in the snow.