I stood on top of that hill and watched. It was ice cold and the wind blew strong in my face through the whole day. Yet I stood still and looked, till the sun set in the west one more time. As night came on, the last thing my eyes saw through their weak tears was that my hands had turned blue, and I found that my legs ached and were stiff with frost.
She had not come back, nor would she, this time. Filled with gloom and with a shirk of grief I tried to turn and walk back to my "home", which had been turned by me to a real hell. But I tripped, and fell, and bled. I fell hard, like a tree that falls to the dread ax, but I was cut by my own ax; I had made it wide and I had honed it so sharp, that once it turned back to meet my roots, I knew that I could stand no more. I beat my wife once too much and now, in her strength, she was gone.
Laid on the hard rock ground, bared to the now black sky of doom, with no one who should think of me or care for me or save me, I could but wait to die. I knew that she would soon be free of me. My one last vain hope was that in death, I, would be free of me.
Did you notice the pattern in this story? The challenge today was to write something using only one syllable words.
By the way...MILLERWRITES copy is COPYRIGHTED. Why cut and paste when you can simply copy the link?