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March 26, 2019, 10:59:19 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
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Author Topic: Tent  (Read 225 times)
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« on: March 11, 2018, 10:19:45 PM »

I could have chosen a tent or a quinzhee, but I chose a grave, instead. I dig and dig in the Antarctic ice until the sweat beads on my skin. Time to slow it down. Too much heat is bad in this frozen wasteland. It is imperative to maintain homeostasis. How much further do I have to go? A couple more feet. Six feet down and I have it. The sun is setting. That orange ball inching closer to the horizon, but it will never dip below the mountains and glaciers, like that mathematical curve that never touches zero. Whatís it called again? Itís summer at the end of the world.
I keep digging. I carve a shelf out of one of the long walls of my grave, about knee high. I lay down and check it for size. Do I fit? Kind of. Keep digging. This is where I will sleep tonight. (What a story this will make someday, I think).
It occurs to me that the only noise I hear is my own. The ice is loud, echoing, like walking on a Styrofoam world. I stop and listen. Not a sound. I peak over the edge of my hole. Everyone has gone to bed. I look at my watch, eleven p.m. Good time for a break, I tell myself. Climbing up to the surface I look west and catch my breath.
The silence is deafening. I stop crunching on the Styrofoam and listen. I hear my heart beat, a little wind. I donít think Iím even breathing. Antarctica hides its secrets well. It gives nothing, and it takes as much as it loses. Staring across the ice sheet, beyond the yellow Scott tents, and makeshift kitchen, the yellow-orange sun hovers above the endless ice, framed by frozen mountains. A true quietness still lives in this world, beyond the sleepless cities, the patter of rain on forest canopies, and all that man has done and will do.
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