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Emma Lee

It’s snowing. Flakes drift through the air, settling on my helmet, my

goggles, gloves, poles and skis. It’s beautiful, serene. Completely


I stand at the top of the run, wind running through my braids and

lifting them off my shoulders. It seems to be spinning from the

bottom of the slope, from where the mist is slowly advancing.


I answer by pushing with my poles and then I’m flying, forgetting

everything outside of this moment. Instinct takes over and I’m a

bird, weightless and doing what I was made to do.

We weave past each other, edging the fresh snow onto each other’s

skis, laughing. Drifting apart and drawing together like waves upon

frozen sand.

The moguls loom in my vision and I embrace the challenge,

dipping, lifting, running over the snow, becoming one with the


The wind sets me alight from within, burning my calves and

licking my skin. Lending me strength. Sucking me down and pushing

me to go faster, faster,



I am enveloped in mist. It clings to my hair and drips down my

goggles, freezing my nose and encasing me in crystal.

Faster it insists,



Slipping, heart pounding, sliding down the slope, I move faster.



The wind sends me reeling, pulling me down the mountain and

whipping across my unprotected face. It rips past my lips and whispers

down my throat.




I come to an abrupt stop. Turning around, I look back at where I

came from. My heart flickers when all I register is mist and blurry

figures drifting by in a haze. That’s when I realise we’ve been

separated, parted by the thrill of the race.

The mist seems to be closing around me, wrapping me in its

suffocating hug. I turn away from the realisation and the fear. Fear

brought on by the rumbling that brought me to a stop, the tremors

that have returned, louder than before. The sound of their quaking

ricochets through the misty air, shooting out and then returning.

Glancing back again, I see the fog thicken and seemingly roll