Christmas at Snow Hill

Short Fiction by Jonathan Hunter

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Life was a dark tunnel. Struggling with Poundland Presents, I dared not look at my reflection. My heating and Netflix disappeared like the leaves in Autumn. My lungs were a furnace as I lumbered across Snow Hill Station. Covid had made illness my familiar acquaintance. The steps tempted my tired soul.

I awoke on a hillside surrounded by pine forest. Each tree knew my every thought. I dared not leave a print on the unspoiled snow. Was I dead? A lady silently approached. Her pale blue eyes froze my mind. Her emerald green dress swaying in the wind made a tingling sound ring in my ears. Paralyzed, I attempted to speak, but my tongue was an icicle.