Small Realities

Inside the mind of Lance Schonberg

Thorvald’s Wyrd 092

The North Wind bit into Thorvald’s cheeks, stronger than a moment before.  In that moment, it brought some stale smell, not of death or rot or any foul thing, but merely of air undisturbed for centuries, found and breathed once more.  The smell passed in a strong and sudden gust.  Tiny crystals leapt into the air around him, a tiny dust devil filled with icy teeth.

Raising an arm to save his eyes, he continued walking as the miniature whirlwind broke apart and sent its teeth spinning in every direction.  When he dropped the impromptu shield, there lay the Mountain.

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