Tundra-Like Hell: A Narrative Fiction

The setting takes place in a small town called “Starkfield”. Starkfield is a town that is just like its name, it is boring, barren, severe, and harsh. Starkfield is known for its many harsh winters that leave the inhabitants bitter and in harsh condition. Starkfield is a village that lays “under a sheet of snow perpetually renewed from the pale skies” (pg.10).By the time the snow is gone and things are well it snows again. Not only is the snow harsh but it acts as a barrier to many of the residents keeping

In the northern part of the earth and the upper slopes of all mountains all over the world, a unique biome called tundra exists. Tundra is one of the coldest and harshest biomes of the world. The winters are long and cold, and the summers are short and cool. Tundra is far from the equator; therefore, Tundra soil is generally poor in nutrients. Since the biome is covered in snow throughout the year, the arctic tundra doesn’t seem like a place where plants and animals can survive. Yet, plants and animals are able to survive, thanks to their special adaptations. In fact, it isn’t the freezing temperature that they fear; it is us, human. Today, tundra faces lots of threats and problems because of human. One of the major problem is Global

Fixing his eyes on the place where the light had shone down he searched for stars, clouds, the slightest hint of moonlight, yet found nothing, and shutting his eyes again, resolved to sleep until daylight. Before the numbness could swallow him, a crawling sensation on his right calf alerted him to the presence of some creature lurking there, a small animal with strength, insect or lizard. With a simultaneous kick of his right foot and flail of his left arm, he managed to smack it off, then laid as still as possible till the fire in his bones subsided. Sleep overtook him, smiling in the dark. He could

The petite stream is the only guide, slithering nimbly on – almost like a snake. The clouds are mighty; they are too dense to see the holy, cerulean sky. Stretching up to try and touch this sky are monolithic towers, which overshadows anyone who passes. Moss clenches onto them, their humdrum green tops merging together. They are quite daunting: their lanky structure, over hanging ledges (that threaten to give way any moment) – everything about the wild stone pillars are awe striking, and great.

Her hands danced in the air; her eyes were glued to the unforgettable view that surrounded us. She looked at me and threw my hands in the air with hers. I grew the courage my sister always had and looked down. I was in the clouds; I was on top of the city. Millions of ants danced on the floor beneath me. Skyscrapers and streets, smothered in traffic, formed a board game in my mind. The breathtaking view from atop the clouds formed a Van Gough canvas. My blood shot into every crevice of my body. The harsh wind made my eyes drier than a desert. As my brain plunged in and out of my skull, I realized the meaning of life’s adventures. Soon I began to feel a line of water descend from my cheek.

After disappearing down the snow covered trail, Alex looked at his map and recognized he was nearby the Triple Lakes Trail. Not wanting to encounter any people, Alex ventures away from the trail until he discovers a lake up ahead and begins setting up his tent and gathering some materials to start a campfire just inside the forest near the lake. Just as Alex finished putting his tent up and gathering enough sticks to keep a small fire going for a while the sun started to set. Alex then went and filled up his canteen with water and went inside his tent for the night. Once inside his tent, Alex decided to go through his bag to make sure he still had everything he brought with him. In his bag he had a ten pound

Every inch of the dusty Walla was covered in moss coloured slier. The ceiling was crushing me with every step. I was droning as the walls caved in. I could smell the odours from the dead animals creeping its way up my swollen nose. The scent whirling around, getting stronger, the further into its world it got. This unfamiliar place kept feeling further away from home and slowly felt my heartbeat increasing. Abode thirst scream, a suicidal blood splatter, a choking stench, a gruesome Tate, a trembling body, the world was slipping away at my trembling fingertips. And i stumbled my way deeper and deeper; the dusty darkness became somewhat mysterious. The once slime covered walls, were now shiny glass and had been stretched into a dome. There was a strange smell, like shoe polish, flowing around the room. The disturbing silence was growing more frightening. It was lifeless. My eyes were drawn to an ago iin sight. Right in front of my blurring vision, the reflection strewn across the glass, stopped my pulse. Jet-black eyes, red tangles locks, and brightly coloured clothing stared back at me like a laser-light. A droning sound echoed off the revealing walls. It was the same sound as the grandfather clock made in my old grandmother’s house. It bounced around, as if to make fun of me. It was ripping away at my ear drums with its repetitive noise, increasing by the second. Silvery illuminates

The humid, windless night fails to distract me; instead, it persuades my heart to find tranquility and serenity with nature. Glancing back at my dimly lighted, compact camping tent, I vaguely distinguish the figure of my sleeping sister. Her loud snores and dissatisfied sighs only serve to remind me what I left behind. Having lived in St. Louis all my life, I had grown used to the heart-warming, whitish glow of street lamps outside my windows, their light shadowing the shape of my car. Yet, this was blackness that I couldn't recalled seeing before. One that was absolute, as if a clumsy student spilled ink all over the desk. When I tilted my head skyward, I beheld the canopy of dazzling stars as they emerged amongst the ocean of blackness. Some were dull, merely flickering into existence every now and then, but still enough shimmering stars to illuminate the dark night. Upon further examination, like a biologist studying under her microscope, through my miniature telescope I found the key to another world- a world of beauty, love,

Each tiny snowflake that had fallen from the sky that seemed to never end. It started to create so much excitement to play in the snow. Jumping up and down, faster and faster. Everything flashed and the room went black. I started to scream bloody murder, the pain was so intense, and blood had started to drip down my back.

It was amazing how silence could descend upon a dwelling when you took away all the power. The steady hum of air conditioning, the whirring of fans, the sounds of appliances. They all disappeared leaving you with nothing but your thoughts and the outside...and the outside here was howling with the snowstorm. He straightened up out of his office chair and shut his laptop, his large frame looming in the darkness and the floor making a slight creaking noise as he stepped from around his desk. His hand moved and he picked up one of the flashlights, the other picking up his phone as he called out just slightly.

Saturday Night Light Shadows inhaled the poison light, as a finch crossed my eye path and in the moment seemed suspended before me: its small feet almost baggy beneath knotted plumage. I saw myself traverse the cosmos on a curve of time like the moon’s arrant eating when it is rising; how its glow tangos at last on the eyelids. Settling into the reiteration of evening making this one place the spot where you were. Hope is all the sap that runs downhill following that old path as water might, with its innate grace to become affixed to any one place, as a delicate vine or a ballerina floating on a toe.

Shards of crumbled dreams just lay on the ground and muddy water streams, trickle among crushed rose petals - that have been trampled on by uncaring feet. While the sparks of the fire just smolder and won’t burn, crumbled dreams like so many nightmares, come to haunt you in the night, like phantom specters, on skeleton horses - riding through dark night skies. Shadows hide the moon and

It was snowing the day it happened. Icy flakes drifted down from the sky in a flurry of madness, and the air was freezing. This is how it always was, and how it always would be, ever since the spirits had terrorized the streets of the village. Everyone’s windows were boarded, and no one dared step outside for fear of being taken.

On a snowy and windy night, I was at Barnes & Noble in Green Bay with my friends, Alan and Karina. Christmas music played overhead, the smell of hot chocolate and freshly brewed coffee wafted over, the customers were kind and cheerful, and snow was beginning to blanket the parking lot outside. We were sitting near the cafe wrapping books to support their mom’s school fundraiser. I stared outside and remembered my mom’s warning of the large snowfall that was almost upon us. Around 7:15, the snowflakes were becoming larger and we could barely see outside the window.

Her mother could barely stand to be in the room, so clashing were the colors of trinkets and furniture scattered haphazardly about. Multicolored muslin tapestries of zodiacs and mandalas littered the walls and ceiling, some taught, others drooping from their moorings. Underneath the recently acquired hangings was the old wall, painted, repainted, and still unfinished; a great unrestrained mish mash of colors that represented Kat’s mood. Phillipa was proud to see the many still-odorous, bright streaks of sunsets, and less oceanic, moody splotches. There had been so many of the depressed hues casting unhealthy opalescent reflections onto Kat’s pale, unhealthy skin last year. The rest of the room was a multitudinous arrangement of various furniture; chairs, modern and antique, gifts from friends and family, holding memories from years past and present, oak shelves full of creaking leather bound scientific journals from aspiring botanists who’d given up on their hobby, torn books of copious varieties, ranging from journals people had kept and sold, wanting to forget their contents, to fairytale books with crayon pictures scribbled in margins that smelt like decades old wax, all worn from exposure to mildew, giving off the aroma of dewy basement. Kat and Phillipa could be found poring over the books for hours, having sleepovers at each other 's’ houses just to finish