He moves carefully across the ice, the surface rippled with the motion of waves, caught in the moment when it froze for the last time. The snow eddies and catches in tiny drifts before being scoured away by the endless wind. The ice is dark, a greenish blue. There are air bubbles. It is solid.
At a point well out of sight of any land, he stops. He kneels, brushes away the powdery snow. The ice here is measured in fathoms. There is nothing below him but shadows.
He retrieves an ice axe from his pack and begins to dig.
DP FICTION #5: “Not a Bird” by H.E. Roulo
12 hours ago