Read our Short Story Contest Winner!

This October, we hosted our very first short story contest! It was a way to celebrate the writers in our community and unite around the beauty of storytelling . . . and let me tell you, our writers showed up!

This year's winner is Esther Hawley with her story "While the Light Fades." Enjoy reading her beautiful and dramatic tale!

While the Light Fades

by Esther Hawley

Darkness. Eyelids fluttering, breath shallow, a world of falling ash and dancing snow, slowly came into sharp focus. The inky blackness of midnight hung heavy in the atmosphere. The acrid tang of smoke hung thin in the air, reminding him every moment of the terror he had felt, was it seconds or hours ago? He couldn't tell how long he had been unconscious, his mind felt completely empty of thoughts. Looking around he saw cold and unwelcoming woods, shadows lurking, slithering, and slipping like oil between the thin trunks of trees. He knew however that he must move, must find shelter, must not get caught. 

Using the branches of a tree close by, he hoisted himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment before a pain like never before, and almost unbearable, ripped through his body. Loosing an animal-like scream, he collapsed. 

Laying on the ground, stiff, and completely unable to move, he could only wait for the burning of his flesh to subside. It felt like hours until the heat receded and a chill like ice settled in. Suddenly, in a rush of warmth, memories of the events of the night returned. He remembered the fall, the impact, and the darkness, the wrench in his gut and the heat on his back. 

He turned his attention slowly to the wound in his side, peeling back the layers of cloth that had previously protected him from the brutality of winter. His fingers, clumsy from the cold, revealed exactly what he had expected, and dreaded. A wound stretched across his left side, beginning at his hip and extending just below his armpit. Deep and bleeding profusely, he was shocked he had remained conscious for as long as he had. He knew it had to have been from the razor-sharp shrapnel radiating from the blast. 

Glancing around, he noticed the sturdy larch tree that he had used to pull himself up before. Pushing his arm tightly against the wound in his side, and clenching his teeth, he wrapped one arm around the base of the tree. Dragging himself forward and moaning through his teeth, he was able to prop himself up against the obliging sapling. Despite the blast and impact, his pack had remained on his back. Pulling a knife from its sheath at his waist, he cut the straps securing it over his shoulders, and pulled it to his side. Still holding his left arm against the wound, he rooted with his right through the well-organized pack, pulling out one after the next: a packet of white powder, his canteen, and a clean roll of gauze. 

Slowly and deliberately cleaning the gash with water, he sprinkled the powder in a liberal layer and finished by wrapping his abdomen in bandages. Looking up he realized he had to try to relocate again. Come daylight the woods would be crawling with the bloody hounds that were his enemies. His heart began to pound in frantic expectation of preventable pain. Grabbing onto holds in the tree, he painstakingly raised himself inch by inch until he stood, hunched and leaning against his rooted staff. Slowly, and with the aid of every tree he passed, he navigated the wood. With each step his boots broke the thin layer of frost, crunching loudly. It was still dark, though it was growing colder, indicating that dawn was not far off. Breathing heavily and feeling weak he leaned against a tree to gain his bearings and steady himself. 

Scanning the wood in every direction, he suddenly froze, staring at what lay before him. Next to a tree, not 15 feet away, lay a man, whose parachute was splayed out around him, though it was ripped in many places, and he could see holes burned throughout it. Approaching, he knelt beside the man, and extending a shaking hand, touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. Pulling his hand away he bowed his head, tears leaking from his eyes to drip onto the snow-covered ground, melting tracks and disappearing. Shoulders shaking, his entire body was racked with sobs. Hope and joy had never felt so far away, for surely he was abandoned, alone in this cold expanse of loneliness. How was it fair that noble men must jump from the sky only to fall to their deaths? Glancing at the body of his comrade, hopelessness filled his soul. Wrenching himself to his feet, he stumbled quickly away. As he ran, tears again filled his eyes, blinding him to the unfamiliar scenery. Above, the sky began to lighten, a rosy hue gracing the horizon. 

Heading east as best as he could figure, he continued to hurry, tripping on roots and hollows, gasping from lack of air and the tearing pain in his side. 

Then, as if the world suddenly dropped away, disappearing into mist, he emerged onto the crest of a hill. All around, the trees had backed up to form a glade, at the edge of which, the opposite side ran steeply down. The hill on the crest of which he stood appeared to be the first of many that rose out of the forest behind him. However, before him lay a beautiful vista of frosted woodland.

 He fell to his knees and covered his eyes. Every inch of his being felt numb, whether from cold or grief he could not be sure. He felt nothing; he was sure that the cold would consume him. Minutes passed, then, something shifted. Nearly imperceptible at first but continuing to grow steadily, the feeling reminded him of an afternoon spent in the meadow behind his family's summer cottage. The darkness behind his eyes grew a little less heavy. Opening his eyes and squinting against the light, he could see a thin line of orange blooming rapidly on the horizon. In stunning detail, the world around him was revealed, the sky was flooded with vibrant hues of orange and yellow, rippling clouds were traced with golden lines, the wood below glistened as if covered by a million diamonds. But it didn't stop there. 

The heat crept into the man's soul. It melted the ice and scattered the shadows. He felt clear, as if he had been pulled from deep waters. From the joy in his soul, he knew his very reason for living had returned. Eyes wide, he stared out over this world that was so different from moments before. His lips trembled. Taking a deep breath he whispered in awe, 

“The sun still rises.”

About the Author:

Esther is fifteen years old from St Louis Missouri. She is homeschooled and enrolled in classical conversations. At home she enjoys reading books that hold a deeper meaning, watching movies with plenty of action, and sketching landscapes in a loose, black and white style.