by Justin Wayne
***
With hands clasped together in his jacket and head low to the relentless tempest that assailed him every step of the way; a reddened nose led the way like a torch. Heavy boots plodded through the snow and only grew heavier as it compacted to solid ice within the tread of the soles. Heavy axion bobbing up and down along his back, he pushed his way against the current and down the lonesome street of Journ.
With every footfall the town flashed to life around him; the trees green, the buildings alit with light shining through their windows, and folks to wave to as they walked past. He could hear voices as they greeted one another or bartered prices for the goods on display. The sweet scent of bread and honey wafted past on the cool breeze and he breathed in deeply.
A voice called out his name.
He spun around quickly but saw only the empty street. He blinked a few times and looked side to side; peering through the shifting veil of flurries that rippled across the air in layer after endless layer. His eyes climbed the walls around him as he searched the buildings but found all the life gone; color washed away.
“Just me imagination it is,” he muttered and tried to ignore the disappointment that threatened to upheave all he had strived for. He knew giving in to the depression that so tarnished his home now would only succeed in losing himself to it as he had before.
He spat on the ground and it froze on contact. “I’ve got to keep me head so I can lop off it’s.” he growled with the thought of facing the demon fresh in his mind. No fear was found there nor restraint; he wanted it to find him, to come to him one on one. He snorted and laughed at how angry he had become.
“’So much frownin’ will give ye’ wrinkles’.” he quoted then stopped short at the memory. He held back the wall of regret that threatened to drown him once unleashed behind a dam of determination. “Not yet; not now.”
In silence he trudged against the storm with Journ reviving and dying around him with his every step. With the vivid color palettes shifting before his eyes; leaving afterimages with alarming disorientation following, he arrived at his own doorstep in what seemed like hours later.
He eyed the thick oak door with grim resignation. The intricate carvings of his gods upon the frame shone like a beacon for all his woes to converge. Hand trembling, and not due to the cold, he hesitated at the doorknob. He feared what he might find within and wished he hadn’t come as soon as his gnarled fingers wrapped around the brass handle.
