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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Ice, Ice.


You follow my lead as I step into the stream, your mind filled with curiosity and fascination. I wonder whether I am leading you to danger; the river is not far ahead. I recognise the river well; we have had many heartless encounters. Each time I arise from the river, I am weaker, yet still breathing. You do not know what lies ahead, what lies beneath or what lies within. The river is strenuous; it will imprison your soul. I question your intentions, avoiding the obstruction as I walk. I collapse in the stream, but you are close enough to rescue me. The stream is not vacant, we are not alone. I weep in sorrow as I am injured; you are strong enough to heal me. You walk behind me, questioning where I am guiding you, whether in the direction of safety or jeopardy. I turn to face you and urge you to return to familiarity, for your own sake. Upon refusal, you take my hand with a vow. We have reached the sadistic river, without an indication of liberation. I take a step. The water is cold and hostile. It confines every inch of my existence. The river pulls you in, freezing your reality with malice. We drown in silence, together. 

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