Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #18 September 2015 | Page 60

Sunlight on Snow
By Pete Sutton
The June snows are fairly light this year, but
it is still cold, it is always cold. I am out checking
the traps and the fishing hole. The snow crunches
and squeaks underfoot as I trudge through the frozen
wood. Trees several years dead, groaning under the
weight of fresh snow, not yet harvested for fuel. It is
dark, it is always dark.
I used to bitch about my commute, which was
less than ten miles. Now I dream of having a car. My
job was dull, but at least I had enough to eat. I used to
hate the magpies that infested my garden. Oh to have
a garden! And a nice roasted bird would go down a
treat. I am hungry, I am always hungry.
Folk call it a variety of names but I mostly
think of the deluge of darkness as ‘The Fall.’ Although
I have also heard it called Fimbulwinter by those who
know more about myth than me. It’s been five years
now. Five years without summer. In itself a disaster
but the starving that came after, the panics, the riots,
the deaths. The collapse.
The traps yawn emptily, as usual, I ensure they
still work, having to take off my gloves and feel the
bite of the cold, the burn of the freezing metal. I then
make my way to the fishing hole. Several smouldering
piles stand between the traps and the water. My face
is wrapped in a couple of layers but I still smell the
smoke drifting on the breeze. The charcoal makers are
my seldom seen neighbours.
The frozen smoothness of the river lies between the crumpled hills, the two great bridges,
several miles apart, stand sentinel as I slide down the
bank. Fish still swim its depths, sluggish, smaller than
before the fall, but still good protein. The fishing hole

is like a black eye in the ice, the slush that had formed
since I made the hole - a cataract. Two fish ܚY