January 12th, 2004


Happy Frozen People.

There were nine at the beginning, but in the end, there would only be B, his hands now made from ice and locked onto the steering controls, the movements he would make cracking and ripping the form of his hands, and allowing the cold black blood beneath to seep out through the fractures.

It had been cold when the nine left, but the fog changed that. It arrived slowly, a scrap at a time, building itself from the still water, and around the ferry. B, narrow and dark in skin and hair, had told the eight that he could pilot it in any condition, and when the visibility dropped, he shrugged casually, flipped on the floods, which shone like dying eyes, and ignored the little voice of caution.

It was the two at the edge of the ferry that went first. B had been watching them from the corner of his eye, since he knew them least, and since they were young and oh so in love, his cynicism picked them as the type to watch. But they didn't move. For fifteen minutes they stood, arms around each other, staring out into the fog filled night, and finally, nudging one of the three around him, he sent two down to see what it is that they were doing, and to stop, cause it was freaking him out.

The screaming began almost immediately.

They were frozen. Not just cold, or with a bit of frost, no. No. That would have been simple. Instead, they were ice: clear, see right the fuck though their skin because it was ice. B could follow the map of their veins underneath, linking to the organs, each neatly arranged and packed like the human body, and slowly, beneath his gaze when he finally came to the rail, turning to ice.

There was panicking. Of course there was panicking. One man--J--leaped the rail, but they never hear a splash, or the water break, and when they went to the metal guide rail he had touched, they found the skin of his palm torn off and wrapped around it, turning into ice before their gaze. But no J. And that was when B noticed that he didn't hear the dull slap of the water anymore; the ferry was moving, of that he was sure, but how quickly, he had no idea: the fog was a moving white-grey wall, giving no indication of what was to arrive.

On the ferry, people broke. B forced everyone into the cabin where he controlled the ferry from, but the tension and ice worked its way through the remaining six. It rose and rose as people found their limbs turning to ice, their emotions turning brittle, rising, rising, until, L (a curved, red haired woman) attacked one of the others, punching him in the chest, shattering her fist and driving shards of ice into him. Horrified, she ran out into the night, where, later, they would find her as a huddle ice carving.

For the rest, the night and ice wore on, eating away at them, turning them, killing them, until finally B was left, bonded to the controls, and plowing the hulking form of the ferry into the docks, unable to stop.


this was a fifteen minute fiction. which means i wrote it in fifteen minutes, just for the fun of it, and cause the idea was there, and it's really quite useless.

cool photo though, hey?

Life Choice #47

I avoid talking to my hate filled grandmother on the phone by answering it with cliched accents. The Jamaican is my favourite.
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