Mimir's Price: A Short Story

It was another beautiful day on the Missouri River. The air was crisp. A slight breeze drifted over the ice covered river. The sun was illuminating onto the ice making a bright white light. You could not have asked for a better day of ice fishing. Luckily for us, we got settled just in time for the chaotic weather. We had our shack 15 yards from the 13th pillar under the Singing Bridge. Shacks were scattered all over the river like stars in the sky. It was about 25 degrees out, perfect for ice fishing. Everybody

Suddenly my eyes flew open, the coldness slowly lingered away. My body felt warm. Almost as warm as how my mouth felt the last time I had sipped on my grandmother's tea. My grandmother always told me to have faith and to believe in the end everything would be alright. I felt the frigid saltwater against my skin. “Where am I?” I thought to myself. I couldn’t quite recall what had happened nor where I was. All that I could recall was hearing screams of innocent children and parents trying to comfort

When I heard Jessica crying and saw the dog looking into my face I told him “Georgie go see why Jessica is crying”. Next thing I knew he went off running and she was quiet so I went to check on her and there they were in the bed sleeping, he comfort her. Even though a snow storm was coming, she decided to go on her winter camping trip anyway. It was like something was calling her out there. But in the event of her wilderness trip she was starting to feel better. There was a positivity her in her life that was growing and the depression had started to fade by the activities she is doing. Her experience of sleeping in below freezing caves, digging out of a snow barricades with the help of Jackson and Hailey. She was doing things her and her dogs would never have dreamed of. She admits that her very cold and freezing adventure has helped her appreciate the beauty of life and her winter wilderness experience. She was starting to feel like she belong and was appreciating the value of her life and her surroundings. “A Blizzard under blue sky” gave her a new lease on life and a spark of rejuvenation.

The sky rumbles with thunder as the charcoal clouds roll over the excessively dark rough watered lake. The clouds are so thick and dark that only a few flickers of light, from the moon, shine through. The depth of the lake appears to have no end, as if anything would get lost if caught in its’ rough currents. Thick and high grass cover the water’s edge. The air becomes thick and icy, making it hard for anyone to breathe. It is the kind of icy feeling that fills the whole entire body, consuming every inch of life within. The kind that send chills down spines. There is the sound of pinging in the distance.

The author tries to compare the time he went fishing with his dad and how he's fishing

In the cold December, when the land is white with snow, my children’s children go to play on Bloody Ice. Its incarnadined surface is a source of mystery, another one of our town’s curiosities. Sixty years ago—but how my memory dims!—I saw the red take hold. I saw wicked things rising from the lake, and when they left, they took my brother with them.

We had not gone a rod when we found ourselves in a heap, in a heavy drift of snow. We took hold of each others’ hands, pulled ourselves out, got into the road, and the cold north wind blew us down the road a half mile south, where the Strelow boys and John Conrad had to go west a mile or more. When they reached a bridge in a ravine, the little fellows sheltered a while under the bridge, a wooden culvert, but Robert, the oldest, insisted that they push on thru the blinding storm for their homes. In the darkness they stumbled in, and by degrees their parents thawed them out, bathed their frozen hands, noses, ears and cheeks, while the boys cried in pain. “My brothers and I could not walk thru the deep snow in the road, so we took down the rows of corn stalks to keep from losing ourselves ’till we reached our pasture fence. Walter was too short to wade the deep snow in the field, so Henry and I dragged him over the top. For nearly a mile we followed the fence ’till we reached the corral and pens. In the howling storm, we could hear the pigs squeal as they were freezing in the mud and snow. Sister Ida had opened the gate and let the cows in from the field to the sheds, just as the cold wind struck and froze her skirts stiff around her like hoops. The barn and stables were drifted over when we reached there. The roaring wind and stifling snow blinded us so that we had to feel thru the yard to the door of our house. “The lamp was lighted. Mother was walking the floor, wringing her hands and calling for her boys. Pa was shaking the ice and snow from his coat and boots. He had gone out to meet us but was forced back by the storm. We stayed in the house all that night. It was so cold that many people froze.” Although most of the information that was collected or the stories that were told were in South Dakota, Nebraska, North Dakota the temperatures took

` E.B White, author of famous stories like Charlotte’s Web, once said ,"The middle track was missing, the one with the marks of the hooves…”. He continues on with this phrase, trying to connect the reader to the concept that change comes with time. In “” Once More to the Lake” by E.B White and ” Forgetfulness” by Billy Collins, both writersauthors strive to make the reader understand how nothing can stay the same throughout the tests of time. In White’s story, he narrates an experience of going to the lake that he used to visit when he was young. He takes his son with him, and at first, sees himself in his son, but eventually succumbs to the repercussions of time, proving that he is closer to death than previously thought. Additionally, the poem ”Forgetfulness” address the same topic. Billy Collins, the author, describes experiences that display memories being forgotten over time. Collins, therefore, tries to show the reader that memories tend to fade, or change, over one’s lifetime. Therefore, using diction and figurative language, E.B White and Billy Collins help one better understand that the true tragedy of time is the change that comes with it.

“Homewaters of the Mind”, written by Holly Morris, is a personal narrative from an anthology named Another Wilderness. The narrator starts her story with details of an early morning and preparation for fishing. She then reveals a glimpse of her past, which explains her hobby, fishing, and a sense of disconnection from her father. Shifting back to present day, she struggles with fishing, prompting her to contemplate and admire the scenery. The narrative ends with the author wanting to reconnect with her father. The narrator masterfully utilizes this one fishing experience to illustrate the influence of nature and time on her mind.

“fall of the year they penetrated a weird lake country, sad and silent, where wildfowl had been, but where then there was no life nor sign of life—only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered places, and the melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches.

As Bill took his first step in the woods, he takes a deep breath soaking in the scent of oak and fresh ash. “far removed from the seats of strife”, not having a warm bed or hot meals even a full night rest. Knowing he had one abventure ahead for Bill and Kats. Both having to hike 16 miles everyday over rocks,trees, crossing ice cold rivers, and hearding the rain outside of thier tend and the roaring of the bears at night.

Memories can in a way define who we are and how we progress through life. Memories can be a pathway to either follow the straight and narrow or to have us decide which fork of the road to take. Past memories can help to identify a person and can effect the future that follows. Through the journy of self discovery, Marshall’s Praisesong for the Widow and Danticat’s Breath, Eyes, Memory suggest one must relive past and present memories to find their true identity in the future.

On we hiked towards the cloud cover, passing by crystal clear ponds and fields of snow, left over from the winter before. As we gained elevation the temperature dropped and a wind came up out of the south, forcing us to stop after a few minutes to put on our extra jackets. We did our best to stick to the center of the ridge from that point onwards. If it hadn’t been as wide, we would have had to turn back for fear of being blown off the edge. The worsening conditions made continuing difficult, but we did so nevertheless.

After summer is fall and I got to say that it is so long and cold it’s more miserable than just sitting on the couch being bored. The water park is barren and silent, like a ghost town that has not had any visitors in quite some time. The whispers of the wind fly by and it is the only thing you can hear in the distance. The chilling wind snaps and cracks, ready to hit anybody that is

E.B White’s essay “Once More to the Lake” is a reflective piece of writing loaded with comparisons of the past and present memories and the chill of death. White revisits the same location with his son that he used to visit with his father. White realizes that the trip with his father is very much similar to the trip that he is on with his son in the present. The details from the past and present are so alike that it gets hard for him to distinguish where he currently stands. Often times he catches himself doing the same chores with his son as his father did with him. In the conclusion of his essay, White brings his audience back to present and influences them to understand that, as he is maturing he is getting nearer to death and like his father, he will likewise turn out to be simply one more memory.