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Hearts dangled from branches that stretched out in the cold like gnawed, twisted, and broken fingers.

These abominations of nature were held by carrion crows and ravens as their seats of judgment. There they awaited a lone figure struggling through the hellish landscape of white.

The stranger’s frozen flesh was smeared with blood, and gold dangled in his braided hair of flaming red. His head hung low, a chain around his neck; eyes dead to the suffering to come. He was forced to ascend the solitary hill to await judgment. Forced to fall to his knees beneath the wicked branches, to the birds’ distorted song.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Death! One of the crows cackled from its seat.

Death! The others chorused. Death! Death! Death!

They descended in a storm of black feathers, pecking and tearing at his flesh, his eyes, his lips, blood splattering beneath their wicked talons. The stranger screamed until blood gushed from his mouth and his scream became gurgles of anguish. The Black feathered angels laughed and relished; his torment naught but a feast for them.

In the end they tore out his heart, his soul, a gift of life that his dead mother had given him and hung it from the dead tree with the rest of them.