Win­ter’s Re­morse,

Pasatiempo - - Holiday Writing Contest -

hot flame that roil about. Christ­mas spirit should be run­ning hap­pily through the air, as carols float hastily on the frost­bit­ten breeze, voices stream­ing from chapped lips, noses run­ning and red from cold.

In­stead, this hor­rific scene un­folds be­low me. The men, women, and chil­dren are lined up bare­foot against a wall. Within sec­onds, blood stains the ground, and bod­ies col­lapse face first as their spir­its shoot up­ward into the heav­ens. I watch as their souls climb higher and higher around me, and I can see more clearly the pain these peo­ple wit­nessed in their last few hours. I also see the com­ings of frost­bite on the bare feet of chil­dren.

Sad­ness crashes over me to know that I wit­nessed the pain of these in­no­cent peo­ple in their last min­utes. My won­der­ful snow caused frost­bite and pneu­mo­nia in­stead of snow­ball fights and fun. Then it comes, and tears roll forth streak­ing down to the world be­low, foot af­ter foot of its soft fluffi­ness blan­kets ev­ery­thing in its path, cov­er­ing up the evil, cov­er­ing the blood-stained ground, cov­er­ing bod­ies that still hold emo­tion plain in their eyes, cov­er­ing the treach­er­ous grasps of the deep smog. Noth­ing can stop me tonight.

Sean Callin is 14. She is a stu­dent at the Academy for Technology and the Clas­sics.

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