Only one thing to do on a morning like this–hibernate! We don’t have a major ice storm, just ice on the roads in enough spots to make them slick.
At least, most of us won’t be in Darcy and Flora’s predicament:
Sleet rattled against the worn boards of the barn, and a cold wind blew through a crack in the wall directly behind me, sending a shiver down my back. The weather was taking a turn for the worse. If Mom and Burke had been here since yesterday, I didn’t think they could take much more of this.
Somehow, before another frigid night, we had to escape from our prison.
Best Left Buried by Blanche Day Manos
Or Ned’s:
A wind eddied through the building, flicking the newspapers and lifting the pages close to the candle. I had to get out of here, but how? I couldn’t reach the tape to peel it off my mouth and scream for help. My hands were tied behind me and rope was knotted so tightly around my feet that it cut into my flesh. At any moment, the wind could blow a paper against the flame and the whole building would be ablaze in a matter of seconds.
I couldn’t think of a prayer; every Bible verse I had ever read fled my memory. The only petition I had of the Lord was to help me, please, help me.
Through the turmoil in my mind, one idea surfaced. It was a chance, a very slim one, but I would take it. Maybe I could roll my way to safety. How I would roll with my arms stretched tightly behind me, I had no idea, but I would try.
I slid away from the wall, pushed with my heels and tried to roll. It was impossible. Pain in my arms prevented me from doing anything but rocking back and forth in a futile exercise.
Since that didn’t work, I dug the heels of my boots into the floor and pushed, moving one slow inch at a time toward the door. The strewn papers hampered me, sliding under my feet and preventing traction. After five minutes of pushing, grunting and shoving, I had moved perhaps two or three inches.
The light inside the carriage house grew suddenly brighter. Something crackled and I smelled burning paper. Turning my head toward the stairs, I saw that the candle’s flame had caught one of the newspapers on fire. Like a live thing, the blaze ate through the papers, coming nearer and nearer to me. Tongues of flame licked up the ancient, dried timbers of the carriage house.
Moonlight Can Be Murder by Blanche Day Manos
Hibernate–with a cozy mystery, of course.
Speak Your Mind