"Shadows In The Snow" A Creative Writing Piece

1136 words - 5 pages

Anya Kojovic let the door bounce back on its hinges, gasping as the freezing air snatched the breath from her lungs. Icy hands clawed and tugged at the thin brown cardigan that hung loosely over her yellow cotton dress.Thick patches of snow lay like dollops of cream glittering on the ground. Like the cream she put on the Babka she made with her grandmother back in Warsaw.It was clear but for a few clouds smudged into the powder blue sky. There was the sound of tea boiling, because that's what they drank now. The shrill cry of the kettle shattering the gentle trickle of the creek.She could hear the voices of the ladies singing as they washed, finding comfort in routines, clinging to anything that felt normal, holding on to something of home. At the same time trying to forget, trying to push the thoughts away, hold them back like the water in the dam they were building. But frequently memories would flood in through cracks in the wall and she would remember.She remembered dirty cobblestones and grey skies, the sound of her shoes on the road and the eggs that fell from her hands when the gunfire shot. Wide eyed, she had continued on, past the broken glass, bloodied snow and the skeletons of trees.It had all come to an end, as it always does, after years of burning flags, protests, fighting, greed and word that stuck in her throat, a word that made her sick to say - hate. Pointless hate, unknowing hate, hate because you were told to, the worst kind of hate.They fled the country, hearts still beating, fuelled by half hopes of a future. A word used tentatively for the fear that ravaged their bodies, the fear that could sometimes be suppressed with drink or running away but a fear that could never be escaped while their accents were different and their hair was dark. While there was still hate in the world.Edvard would have already left the camp to go to work. Drill in the tunnels of blood, he said, describing the hissing of the compressed air, the screech and whine of the drills, the sound of tumbling rocks and the darkness that filled every crevice, suffocating them. They were like the Snowy River she thought, forced to change course, mid-stream.Anya had not seen him this morning or any other morning. They spoke awkwardly in the short moments they had together in the evening in the noisy food hall, where the sound of men's loud drunken cries echoed off the uneven lino, the dirty white walls and into the valley below. They were all trying to forget.The women cleaned until their hands, like squashed prunes, were bloodied and raw. The scratching of the brushes on the floor and the flop of lazy mops being pushed to work hid the sighs and occasional whimpers, but never tears. They were all the same, here. There was no point in talking of what was past, for what they had seen was almost, but not quite, normal.That evening the yellow light of the hall trickling out onto the rocky ground was almost welcoming. Inside were a few Australian flags, draped over...

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