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Winter Chill - Fiction
Laced Memories
By Karli Kendall
January 11, 2025
The frozen surface of Bower Ponds stretched out before Alex, dusted with frost that sparkled in the winter sunlight, as they shuffled through a bin of donated skates outside the Cronquist House. A battered pair caught their eye. The leather felt dry and brittle, with cracked surfaces where it had once been tightly laced. A faded inscription read “Palmer, 1963.” Alex slipped them on.
As they stepped onto the ice the landscape around them wavered, flickering between winter scenes. When the world solidified, Alex found the familiar sights of Bower Ponds replaced by a landscape that felt both distant and frozen in time. They stood beside a bustling millpond. Men in heavy coats hauled logs from the water, their breath visible in the crisp air. Children skated on a rough patch of ice, their laughter carrying through the scene.
“Watch your step!” a voice called.
Alex turned to see a man carrying a pike pole. Tipping his hat toward Alex the man greeted them,
“Welcome to the Great West Lumber Company.”
The year was 1910, and Alex realized they were standing at the heart of Red Deer’s logging era. They watched and marveled at the dance-like movements of the log drivers as they maneuvered logs through the “raceway” and on the river.
Striding forward, they now found themselves in the 1930s. Now there was a small sawmill, and a dam that stood between the millpond and the river. Children gathered around Caleb “Cap” Card as he tinkered with the waterwheel.
“Keeps the pond flowing,” he said with a grin, beaming as he helped a child onto the ice.
Gliding across the ice, Alex could hear a soft echo from each stride in the crisp air. The scene was quieter now apart from a distant hum of vehicles in the distance. On the shore stood a man surrounded by a group of eager children calling out “Murray!” His weathered hands moved with purpose, adjusting laces and handing out skates.
“Every child deserves to experience the joy of skating,” Murray said, pressing a pair of refurbished skates into a little boy’s hands.
Murray glanced at Alex’s skates and smiled.
“Those? They’ve witnessed a lot of stories,” he said warmly.
“Take care of them, and they’ll show you more than you can imagine.”
Before Alex could reply they were back at modern Bower Ponds, surrounded by families enjoying the ice. The skates on their feet felt lighter, as though they had been relieved of carrying the weight of the stories they had witnessed.
Inspired, Alex knew what they had to do. Over the next few weeks, they began collecting old skates, fixing them up, and donating them to kids who couldn’t afford their own. Each pair carried a piece of history, a chance to connect with the past and pass it forward.
Alex watched a child lacing up their first pair of skates, their face lighting up with joy. Smiling, Alex felt the legacy of Bower Ponds ripple through time.
Winters Chill
by Rhian M. Engel
Tears run from my eyes and instantly froze, as the wind whipped straight to my bones. Knee deep in unpacked snow, I leaned on the nearest tree for stability. Cold hands fumble with my collar. Pulling it up to retain some sense of self warmth. Although that is all but an illusion.
The moon is full and bright. Casting shadows off the trees that dance on the surface of the snow. Flickering and moving as if they have a soul of their own. Not a sound is heard except the screaming of the wind. Howling like a pack of wolves in the dead of night, taunting and teasing me to give up.
I groan as my aching bones and frozen muscles begin to move. I push myself forward. My breath hanging frozen in the air. One foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot. The sheer weight of the snow pushes me back as I attempt to move forward. Right foot, left foot. Knees begging for relief but receiving none.
My arms move in opposites to my legs. Forcing me forward, by will alone. The wind gusts, blowing snow in my eyes with an intenseness I’ve rarely felt. Wiping it away is no relief. My skin is raw, red, intensely on fire. Wind burnt, wind whipped, yet the pain is fleeting. Barely felt in these frozen bones.
My arm outstretched and bent, my only shield. Worthless as I catch a rooted stump buried deep in the snow. My ankle twists with an audible pop and I collapse. A branch of the tree that was previously my savior, now my enemy as it penetrates the sleeve of my jacket, cutting deep into my arm. For the first time in a long time, I feel warmth running towards my hand. Bad warmth. Liquid heat. A crimson mess, pooling in the wrist band of my coat.
Time is at hand. It’s now or never. Push…. Push. Get up. Move…. NOW!
With outstretch hands I pull myself up by the branch that injured me. Left foot, right foot. I slump my body against the tree and use it to push myself forward. Right foot, left foot. A trail of crimson retracing my every step. Soon covered and lost to the unrelenting snowfall.
Can I do this any longer? I can’t feel my extremities. My breath ragged and coming in spurts. Like knives in my lungs. Every gasp is more painful than the last. Cold and unforgiving. I close my eyes.
A sound heard in the far distance shakes me awake. A CLICK and a startling THUD.Followed by footsteps and a sudden blinding light like a blade to my eyes.
“Jim….. Jim! Can you not be so dramatic and just put the trash outside the fence like I asked twenty minutes ago.” She turns and disappears like a shadow in the night, with a THUD and a CLICK!
The pain and cold return…….LEFT FOOT, RIGHT FOOT…
