A Short Story About Facing Death (Unpolished)

Unpolished Thoughts is a space to bring curious readers the ugly first draft of story and its many revolutions before it settles into its most polished form.

It’s not everyday a writer will allow their roughest drafts into the public realm. So enjoy the process from start to finish. Share your thoughts and suggestions. And, then take delight in the finished story.

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Editing — Focus Areas for The Winded Plea

Ominous symbolism with the dogs. Also dogs are a mode of transport for supplies.

Finetune the logical argument given by the deputy commander and first lieutenant and the one given by Raz. Raz is more concrete and based on weather conditions, rate of speed, and their knowledge of the terrain.

Finetune old man Barry’s story.

Finetune the ending.

Finetune character voices and their language (voice).

Finetune the theme. 

Conduct research on northwestern region forests for characteristics, geographic terrain and ecosystem. https://sites.google.com/site/northwesternbiomes/

Fix grammar, syntax, and word choice.

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THE WINDED PLEA

September 2022

There was nothing to go back to but ash covered hollowed frames of what was once their homeland. The smell of deaden embers and drudge of sleeping fear, the ghosts of their broken screams still lingering as the people march onward. They were a long way from home, the Scorchlands, forced about by a formidable tribal enemy who pillaged heirloom and legacy treasures to their delight. The Korian tribe was homeless and sought out to make a new life elsewhere; moving north by foot and dog sleds to the unknown woodlands. Many oral stories of survivors spoke in fear and respect. The northern woodlands were known to be unpredictable and merciless, as it was home to the coldest wind squalls during the season of hibernation. Some may say, life there, was like walking a silk-width thread with death on one side and doom on the other. As dire as this appeared, just beyond its farthest horizon, sat the Coniferous Forest, a welcomed haven for battered souls.

The Coniferous Forest was known for its massive heaven’s bound canopies and thick floor bushes to shield enough of the blizzard. Some say there is a hidden tunnel deep in its center. Some speak of a water hole that can heal at first drink. Winter critters are abundant as a food source. Reaching this forest is critical to surviving as no one has survived a storm such as this. No one in the group had seen this forest nor knew much before an old tale: The Coniferous forest is not a destination, but life itself. It is the only place of refuge for the battered to live and gain strength.

“We lost Barry and a few others are close to dropping back,” the deputy commander spoke above the small crackling fire while the tribe’s leaders quietly listened. They were planning how to protect the tribe from the approaching storm.

“For what it’s worth—” the commander opened. “We are but a hair removed from an act of great power. A wind so powerful and deadly; inhaling any forms of life in front of its path. I am in awe.” The Pacifica Blizzard, a high traveling north to south arctic jet stream that comes every 100 years. 

“Can we outrun it? I want to believe so. That hope is just out there beyond the faint lines out there, out front. If we can just, with the hands of the gods, get to the forest that protects us.” The commander opened his eyes and scanned the group again.

“Sir, if we continue at this rate of speed we risk losing more of our people. We should set up camp instead of pushing to the foot of the valley,” the first lieutenant tried to convince the commander.  

“What do you think, Martese? Should we attempt to make camp now and reset for the forest by moonfall.” The commander turned to his deputy. 

“I agree, sir. There are several stragglers that my men have to go back and round up. It’s the right call for the good of the entire tribe.” The deputy commander paused in understanding the implications of stopping forward movement. They would lose valuable time and the odds were slim that the weakest among them will survive, time would run out.

The first lieutenant quickly interjected, “I don’t like this option either, but having a little rest before making the run for our survival is advantageous. We’ve been walking for two days over treacherous terrain with little to no rest. The people are tired.”

The deputy seamlessly continued the argument, “We can restart our journey immediately at the first descent of the moon's fall. We already know the storm will likely break the southern skies by tomorrow evening when the race truly begins to get to the forest.” 

The commander nodded at the deputy before shifting his gaze towards Raz’s solemn frame. “You’ve been unusually quiet, Raz,” before tossing a charred vermin to the pair of his dogs huddled near his feet.

A paralysis sensation briefly took Raz’s body capture as they froze movement. Knowing the fate of their dad and others who would not be able to keep the pace to get to the Coniferous Forest in the next two nightfalls, this deputy’s and lieutenant’s option did not satisfy Raz. The land between would become a slaughter field of icicles corpses, wide open to the elements and no respite to hide for as far as the eye could take in. 

Raz had quickly read the changing environment. The wilted trees and frigid, cold air and domestic dogs howling told of darker, colder days ahead. The woods hallowed middle, bare trees, and fallen acorns nestled in the tundra floor of snow. The thunderous rumbling set off deep in the valley by scores of game beasts, the clear skies overtaken by a flock of dark, carnivorous birds, and small burrowing verments leaving potholes across the white blanketed flat plains; a remarkable phenomenon was sure to bear down upon the group. Raz carried on in contemplative silence as they knew instinctively, from their youth, that this would be no ordinary set of days.

“If this is the storm of storms, we don’t want to be nowhere near its fury. We will see the weather drop beyond what humans can survive. Once the Blizzards’ hands peek beyond those mountain peaks behind us—” Raz whipped their entire body facing south and watched the bobbing heads of the tribe pacing toward them. “—we will have one day to get to the forest and take underground cover. The women and elderly will not be able to keep up with that type of speed. I recommend we beddown now and send a recon team to make an underground passage for our weak; give them a chance to survive. The strongest among us can clear off towards the forest.

“There is a hidden sanctuary at the foot of the hills. If we were to take one day to go down to the foot of the valley, gather wood, and find ration food they brought from the village, they can keep their weak and weather the storm in the canyons below where the giants of the Caribou herd retreated. The gargantuan beasts were slow-movers but their four meter long limbs and 30 inch feet, that equally distributed its massive presence and gracefully traveled great chunks of distances in mere minutes. This option, they will have to stay in place longer until the storm passes far ahead of them, laying destruction in its path.

“The only defense we have is speed. If we don’t pick up speed and get to the edge of the valley our existence will perish under the swiping flash of ice that will blanket the entire valley plains. We won’t even stand a chance.”

“Our priest has already warned this storm will be the worst we’ve ever seen. One of the coldest storm fronts to ever pass through this side of the valley…” Raz dropped a coin onto the map in the open lands just at the foot of the valley. The forest would be in sight. “We need to be here by dawn tomorrow. Or else—” Raz’s voice became lost in the howling wind zipping through the thin waving trees. “—the tribe of Korian will all die.”

“That’s heavy,” the commander jested.

The first lieutenant made a last attempt to influence the commander’s decision. “The weak among us won’t stand a chance. Pushing onward with no rest to get to the foot of the valley is too risky. Look at the map. There is nothing there but wide-open plains and no appropriate cover from the elements.”

“You all make great points. And I agree, no matter what option we take, the problem is still grave. For whatever reason, our great Deity has taken away what was never in our control. So with the time we do have, we must use wisely,” the commander chimed in.  He paused as his eyes focused on the terrain map in front of him. The commander traced his index and pinky fingers to measure the 300 miles remaining distance they had left to travel before they reached the most northernmost point of the Mesra Folds, a canyon three times the size of its smaller cousin the Great Canyons which was further inland and east. 

He then circled his finger over the last known location of his aging best friend, Barry who had fallen back from the pack. The commander frowned and took a measured breath before letting it rush out into a warm cloud of mist about his face. 

“Let’s move here.” The commander pointed to a valley of Redwoods trees, caverns, and rocks just four miles north from their current position. On the map, it was a tiny depression with rock crevices. Too strong to dig but indicative of possible rock formations that may lend themselves to exterior cover, and using ample vegetative leaves and long grass across to provide insulation.

“This is where we will make the separation and give the weak amongst the best chance to survive.” Raz points their index finger about 250 miles behind their position, the exact location of the edge of the winter blizzard thought to be moving 160 miles per hour. Raz looked up above the rim of their glasses at the commander before speaking, “Do we have the right calculations? According to my numbers the storm is moving faster than we thought.” 

Barry, their father, like many others, would suffer a swift death. Raz did not believe with the distance left to the forest, the tribe would safely make it across the flat, open plains. How were they going to convince the commander that they were embarking on a suicidal mission. Their father’s fate rested on their shoulders. Even with a long storied past between Raz and their father, the thought to leave him alone with an ominous storm was one of the hardest decisions Shy faced.

To this point, Raz never had a close relationship with their father. They disagreed on everything, and Raz felt stilted in their father’s presence. What put the pin in the coffin, is Raz’s father forbade them from joining the elite fighters squad. He felt that Raz was too weak for such a job—only a man should fill. Raz thought otherwise. Now, at 24 years old, a master chief, Raz was about to make the toughest decision they would have to make—rescuing their old or leaving them to their fate. The survival of the tribe depended on it. 

Once the edge of the storm peaked over the crest of the Boabal mountain peak that sat south of the group, at its predicted rate of speed, the group had roughly an hour to reach the Coniferous Forest and perhaps another ten mins to get below ground. This was a near impossible mission ahead of the group. At the very least, they needed to entertain a less precarious option. But did any other option exist?

Raz and the others remained silent at the gravity of doing the unthinkable. The finality and approaching end, shook Raz. The realness of losing a second parent seemed to make the reasons for not speaking to their father miniscule, even meaningless. They felt it was unfair that such a decision now rested on their shoulders.

The commander could see Raz toiling in thought, he responded with resolute compassion, “It is not our place to change fate but to assist those whose turn it is to cross that bridge into the other realm. But a good man of good heart still offers compassion, even in one’s demise. This is the natural order of things.”

# # #

Old Barry knew his fate was in question. As he looked at the dozens of families walking tightly together, Barry walked alone. Raz’s father got weaker as the days went on, and the foot distance between him and the rest of the tribe grew. As time went on, Barry struggled to walk before his legs gave out. He stumbled off the trail, sitting by a tree. The tribe was far ahead of him—Barry had accepted his fate.

Raz could feel the ticking drama of what was soon to come. Raz suddenly decided to drop from the group and go find their father. When Raz got to their father, Barry was propped up next to a tree, shivering as the wind chill dipped below 32 degrees Fahrenheit. The howling winds throttled and whipped. Death was coming fast.

Raz fingertips burned inside their mittens. The still frigid air was becoming dangerous and Raz needed to find shelter—fast. Tonight will likely be colder, and they will surely payout in the elements. But tomorrow evening will be deadly. Raz and their father’s survival was at risk.

Raz turned to look south to eyeball the speed and distance of the racing blizzard. There were soft thud bass boomed that carried through the icy sky, like a sound box. Everything in the path that the storm reached was frozen. Suffocating trees falling to the floor of the earth. Thud. The cracking howls, faint, but growing closer. Raz was in the race for their life while holding on to their father’s dimming life. If Raz was to survive, sheltering in place is not an option. Raz looked in her father’s snow-covered shut eyes, picked up the end of the sled and hooked it back in place.

Raz grimaced as the whipping chill burned their face. The deepening slow burns Raz’s legs as they muscle forward their weight and their dads. Raz determines that this is too slow and builds a master contraption to allow for speed while protecting their father across the snow floor.

“Ready, Alright!” Raz yelled commanding the lead dogs to pick up speed as they orient downhill. Raz’s dad groaned in pain as the sled’s plastic layer jolted and jumped over the thick tundra floor; his pressure points and nerves felt it. Raz looked back at their dad, “Come on, Dad. Hang on!”

Raz then whipped their hand around behind them to catch sight of the ominous dark, white rolling clouds belting towards them. They were hours ahead of the blizzard. Raz for a moment, heart drops at the near thought of how much longer they have in front of them. Raz saw the treeline of the Coniferous Forest. But the distance left would take a miracle to cover before the eye of the storm meets them. The edge of this blizzard is just as lethal, freezing everything in its path. The dogs have been racing for hours with little food. Raz was trying to make it work, but the weight of it all was proving to be a deadly choice. Raz knew they had to cut weight to have the best chance to reach the cover of the Coniferous Forest before the blizzard hit. Their dad groaned loudly. This is a choice no one wishes to make.

One by one the tall fir trees fell. It was both spectacular and frightening at the same time. The thunderous crackling and bass-thumping thuds as the trunks drove toward the white dusted floor, spraying a cloud of settled snow back into the wind catching drafts mixing with the monstrous cloud system. Snowflakes blew viciously. The edge of the storm was frightening enough and covered an acre of ground in seconds. The vegetation in its path took a pale hue from the chill-burn wind that zipped ahead of the front system; nothing survived. Everything lay frozen.

This was Raz’s fate: if they met the edge, their delicate human skin and bones would stand no chance at the edge. Raz whipped the thick coats of the dogs who were clearly maxed out in their capacity to pull the heavy load faster. Something had to give or else they would all follow the fate of those fallen fir trees that fell frozen, no life survived. Raz knew this moment was big as death was at their heels. With the Threshold forest about two hours away, speed was their only chance. Raz had to make a decision now. Drop the extra weight if they wanted a chance to survive. If Raz drops her father into the swallowing storm, there is still a chance they may not make it with the remaining dogs. There was still plenty of open land to traverse. It was nevertheless still a gamble.

The edge of the storm is quickly approaching their position. The dogs were losing steam and their situation continued to worsen as the forest treeline seemed within a grasp. Raz knew they would not outrun the storm’s edge. As defeat started to surface, Raz started to reflect on how far they would have been if not for staying with their father, who clearly became too much weight. Anger and pity start to take root. Self-doubt clouds their judgment. 

Just as Raz entertains the thought of giving up, a fox rushes across the path of their approaching sled caboose about one-fourth mile ahead of them; sparking Raz’s curiosity. There was a gentle familiarity that rushed over them as dated images from their childhood flashed about. Raz could be carried; it was their father walking while holding a younger Raz on his shoulders. “You see that rock formation over there,” he pointed and instantly held young Raz’s attention. “I want you to always remember that if you are ever caught in a big wind storm you will always find safety here. This is the place it is best to hold a chance against mother nature.”  As they approached the cross point where the fox crossed, Raz's attention was immediately pulled to the left. 

A short shrub bush sat in front of massive rocks. There were no signs of the fox. It must have gone somewhere. Raz stopped the dogs and unhooked the alpha who immediately darted to the rock and shrub. Raz cautiously followed and began walking around the rock then Raz saw an opening, just between the shrub and rock. It looked like there was a medium-sized hole that sharply disappeared and went underground. Could this be that same sanctuary from the storm?

Raz ran back to the sled and yelled, “Mush!” Raz guided the sled to the cavern. They immediately pull their dad as far back inside as they could go; the walls snug on each side. Once all were inside Raz rolled a smaller rock at the foot of the cavern. Raz gathered as many twigs, brush, and snow to rake inside. There were about two days of food left and they would have to hope for the best as the storm passed over.

“You think Raz made it?” said the Deputy Commander.

“No way anyone could survive that storm. And certainly not dragging a sick man.” The first lieutenant hung his head, shaking in grief.

“Bring me every able-bodied man and dog. We will head out at first light to find and bury the bodies,” said the commander.

At first light, the search crew approached the storm-damaged path it left behind. It was an unimaginable sight. No clear sign of life. Everything was washed in ice. Just as the seed of doubt consumed the men, a white star cluster shot skyward. The crew looked at each other and knew a rescue was on their hands.

END OF STORY.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. THE WINDED PLEA (draft version). Copyright © 2022 Shay D. Potter. Written by Shay D. Potter.

Thank you for reading! Share your critiques and feedback by leaving a comment below or emailing me at bebettermediallc@gmail.com.