W I N N E R O F T H E J O S H U A W E I N Z W E I G S H O R T S T O R Y C O N T E S T, G R A D E 9 PUBLISHED IN THE 2021 INCITE ANTHOLOGY OF STUDENT WRITING
PLAYING ON THE SNOWY HILLS ____________________________________________________________ by Sarah Golding, Grade 9 My fondest memory occurred a year ago today. Beautiful flurries of snow nipped at my cheeks, leaving behind a tingling sensation. I stuck out my palm and watched the droplets melt. I admired the shrubs—the snow protected them from harm like a shield. Even I, Death, cherish a nice, snowy day. I progressed to a narrow basin in a clearing of the woods where I was to pluck up the soul of a teenage boy. Another young life taken too soon. He had short golden hair that stretched down, framing his narrow face and defined check bones. He had detailed, intricate grey eyes filled with wisdom, kindness and sensitivity. I heard his cries, felt his pain as he begged me not to take him. He banged on the ice sheet that lay overtop him, knuckles bleeding. I felt his suffering and grief, his head getting weaker, his spirit waning. He tried to hold on, begging for a miracle. Oh, how I wish I could save them. Remove them from my deadly clutches and place them back on their miserable, destructive, magnificent world. I’ve always been fascinated by humans and the world they constructed; I could never decipher how they’re capable of so much unpleasantness, yet so much beauty. I felt, as he gave up any hope of surviving, his lungs filling with swampy water as he lost consciousness, sinking deeper and deeper into the water. In his last breaths, he whispered, gurgling underwater, little promises of how he would change, what he would do differently. Oh, how many times I have heard: “Please, I promise I’ll be nicer,” or “I’ll be a better friend,” or “I’ll never swear again,” and “I still have so much to live for.” Despite what humans believe, it saddens me to see people die—children most of all. What they think of in their last breaths, who they’ll miss, what they regret. I’m not cruel. I don’t decide who lives and who dies. I just lead them into their so-called afterlife. “Please God, I’m too young, I don’t want to die. There are still so many things I haven’t tried, so many places I want to go.” I must admit, he sounded genuine. They often do. I was now at the edge of the basin, peering down at the figure at the bottom. In their ultimate moments, I send them memories of their past or their lost future. Frequently, it’s their happiest. Or saddest. Or the moment they regret the most. For the nameless boy sinking to the bottom of the lake, it was the image of his mother’s grief. She was curled up in a ball against the headboard of his bed with the new, darkblue-and-green duvet cover that he so proudly chose himself to match his grey walls. Beside her, a pack of white and orange pills. She looked devastated. Salty raindrop-sized tears boiled up in her eyes, ready to spill over. She reached up to his bedside table and clutched a photo of him, his mother and father, who were all making silly faces at the camera. Her face in immense pain as she painted a finger across the dusty oak frame. No words were needed. I understood. He was all she had left. The only thing preventing her from giving up. Rarely does the image I show change the outcome of someone’s death;
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