And if the snow could scream, it would. It bled already, like a woman prematurely losing the life in her womb, the carnage dripping down the barks of the trees, the scalding hot blood melting the thin layer of frost as it snaked down the wood. The whole forest reeked of blood, the thick stench carried in the air like a message in a bottle meant to find every ear that could listen, foretelling a great unbecoming. …

Aashi Dhaniya

Stories. Sometimes of words, sometimes of people.

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