Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
Ice shimmered across the road and his feet struggled to stay upright; he winced as the stony trail threatened to cut through his thin soles and carve into the blisters holding his feet together. Bony fingers, wrapped in bandages to protect against the fierce northern chill, grasped a tiny, glass ampoule, as if life depended on it. His trek was almost over, and the sun had almost vanished behind the needle spikes of mountains beyond the village, and he was almost home.
In a tiny cottage far inside the village, a candle shone in the window, and the light in the traveller’s weary eyes flickered with the fullness of midday sun as he pushed through the doorway. His blackened fingers held the flask steady as enchanted liquid slipped softly past her cracked lips; it only offered another mere few months, but he’d make that trek over, and over, and over, if it gave his wife even another single moment.
Check out all the other pieces at Lillie's Five Sentence Fiction...