| December 12, 2013 | 0 Comments

By: Lindsay Kutac

December was a pure month. A month of sterilizing cold, and brisk, brutal breezes that have you shivering. But even in December, the cities were dirty. The streets, the sky, the grass – anything the humans touched became tinged with an irreversible darkness. Not many places were free of this darkness, but there was one.

It was cold and bright in the Pure Forest. Every long, thin prick on the pine trees had some amount of snow on it. When a stunning scarlet songbird strutted out on a limb, the leaves scarcely trembled, but some of the arctic powder would treacherously tumble towards the sparkling, shin-high surface of a ground.

Thick, long-standing holly bushes sprouted up between the trees. Their berries were shiny, but not glistening, and were a bloody red. They were the blush of the forest. Some birds would flutter to them, try a berry, and fall dead. Others, though, wouldn’t touch them at all, and fly freely. The dying ones would sit still, eyes blank and targeted upward. The living would soar beyond the clouds with a beatific freedom. Life continued on.


Being a single

Soul is only lonely when

You don’t seek the truth

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Category: Creative Writing, Features, Poetry, Short Story

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