November 13th, 1:24am


Oliver Dixon, Artist/Storyteller

It’s another cold winter evening as snow the size of cotton balls fall onto the ground. That same snow falls onto his coal black hair that covers his eyes, making it even harder to identify him, but that’s the point. He wants to blend in, wants to just be background noise and nothing else. Making his life easier and well, less likely to be the one to blame. No one will point fingers at him; he’s just a nobody! He goes to school, and does what he’s told. Nothing else. This means when he goes out hunting, no one goes looking for him or bothers him. 

It’s deathly quiet, no sound other than the winter breeze that brushes through his hair, and the crunch of his boots walking on snow. He wears his over-sized thick flannel jacket, black cotton shorts, and boots that seem like they’re too big for him. His four-legged friend by his side and his axe in his hand. He wanders through the trees every night hoping to find someone, anyone. Then when he does, he takes his silver axe and swings down onto them. No words, no screams, just a loud CRUNCH that echoes through these ghostly woods. The white snow turns to a dark crimson, and his pale scared face is dotted with that same red. 

The boy lets out a sigh; it’s cold enough you can see his breath. Cold enough that his fingers start to stiffen up.