Winter was always abrupt when she came to Yukon, Canada, but when she did, she left the world blanketed in a silent wonderland of white. Towers of endless evergreen encased in glittering white, the winter breeze doing little to rouse the thick coat of ice and snow that clung to the pine needles. Glacial castles of mountaintops dotted the gray horizon, peaks barely pushing into the morning fog. Waves upon waves of snow flooded and devoured the ground. White puffs, like fluffy cotton balls, lazily invaded the vast White Horse forest. November had been a month of eternal, serene white where the only break of silence was from the snow fall. The wonderland’s white landscape almost seemed as if it were a photograph frozen in time.
Then there was red. An obtrusive, macabre color that darkened the November snow until it was black. It tainted the white, discoloring and melting it until it was grayed slush. The towers of evergreen were splattered with the color, the ice and snow falling from the pines. Waves upon waves of endless white were splattered with the unforgiving hue. It was like a canvas, a painter’s brush blotting our every mention of the blankslate.
However, what ruined the wonderland most of all was not the putrid red. It was not the tainted snow or the smell of thick copper. No, it was the noise that broke winter’s calm. The spell that held the landscape in time was forced to move when a scream crawled its way across the forest. A wail that held a tremor of fear; it was a cry that was strangled with regret. It was bloodcurdling, the raw emotion that conjured up that voracious noise. It spoke ominously, as if in warning despite the enticing fear, but as abruptly as it had started, it had ended.