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Weekly Contest #16
It was the fifteenth winter that Derrick Cheshire had seen, felt, and breathed. Under a moonless night he found the quiet of his surrounding neat and cozy, warm even. The wood smelled and felt like polished—though smooth and rough at one crest or the other—sandalwood. He took it in, breathing the thick musty air, the tip of his nose itching to be scratched, the deep wound through his right shoulder begging to be cleaned and sealed. The blood crusted at the very dead point of the enclosure. Beneath him, the pool of red dripped quietly, soundl...
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