Flash Fiction is supposed to be extremely short fiction stories. Most Flash Fiction is 100 words or less. This one's a bit longer, but it's still pretty short. Hope you guys like it! It's my very first attempt at Flash Fiction and I certainly want to write more.
Blood dripped onto the virgin snow. Sedna looked at the gaping wounds where her fingers had once been. The numbing cold prevented her from registering any sensation of pain. So I have lost my fingers. Anything is better than becoming Panuk’s bride, even drowning. She was ashamed of having been too afraid to face death when her father had taken her out on the icy waters. When he tried to throw her overboard, she clawed at the sides of his fishing boat desperately. That was when he had unsheathed his glistening flint knife.
Sedna knew she should have been dead, yet somehow she had managed to struggle to shore even without fingers. Now she was making her way into the perilous unknown, stumbling through knee-high snow. Her torn, caribou-hide parka was scant protection against the hostile elements, yet she would never be able to mend the holes. When she had her fingers, she was wonderful at sewing with antler-bone needles. The frosty wind tore at her flesh and howled in her ears. It blew her hood back so her long, black hair was unveiled. Under the dancing lights, every strand of it was illuminated a dark blue. She threw her head up to look at the sky. The faces of her ancestors smiled down at her.
Blood dripped onto the virgin snow. Sedna looked at the gaping wounds where her fingers had once been. The numbing cold prevented her from registering any sensation of pain. So I have lost my fingers. Anything is better than becoming Panuk’s bride, even drowning. She was ashamed of having been too afraid to face death when her father had taken her out on the icy waters. When he tried to throw her overboard, she clawed at the sides of his fishing boat desperately. That was when he had unsheathed his glistening flint knife.
Sedna knew she should have been dead, yet somehow she had managed to struggle to shore even without fingers. Now she was making her way into the perilous unknown, stumbling through knee-high snow. Her torn, caribou-hide parka was scant protection against the hostile elements, yet she would never be able to mend the holes. When she had her fingers, she was wonderful at sewing with antler-bone needles. The frosty wind tore at her flesh and howled in her ears. It blew her hood back so her long, black hair was unveiled. Under the dancing lights, every strand of it was illuminated a dark blue. She threw her head up to look at the sky. The faces of her ancestors smiled down at her.
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