#cold body

I'm not dead just busy... always f*cking busy...

On the Blush Blush subreddit, there was a trend to draw Mikey's body correctly. The pin-ups in game just don't look right... so here's my attempt!

@flashfictionfridayofficial

For Flash Fiction Friday #121 Cold Body Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go Warnings: Death Word Count: 956

Cold hands, warm heart. Something Mom used to say. Right now he hoped beyond all hope that might be true. Even through his glove the small hand protruding through the mud and rubble was cold to the touch and it made him shudder to think what that could mean. Just when he thought he’d found another beyond his help, fingers curled around his gloved hand, barely enough for him to feel, but clearly a last-ditched effort, a wordless plea for help. And that was precisely why he was here, why International Rescue existed – to help those who had no other hope.

Unwilling to let go of the hand clutching his, he activated his comm, then scrabbled with his free hand to remove what rubble he could.

“I’ve got one, Thunderbird Five.” His voice was raspy with exertion and a little weariness. It had already been a long day. “Might need a little help digging them out.”

“FAB. I can send Alan over to you, they’re wrapping up at that site.”

Virgil acknowledged and closed the comm. He knew Alan had been a few hundred metres away with Scott and Gordon, helping to extract victims from a semi-submerged vehicle.

The mudslide had swept mercilessly through the village, all but washing it from the face of the map. They’d been here for hours. Survivors were becoming harder to come by but the vehicle had kept the family of five relatively insulated from harm despite the tumble it had taken from the now non-existent road and the mud that had threatened to bury it.

The child clinging to Virgil’s hand had no such protection from the debris or the cold, slick mud. So far his efforts at clearing the area around the hand had revealed very little. He tried to offer words of reassurance, but wasn’t sure if he’d be understood – he didn’t really speak the language. He had tried to let go of the hand so he could use both of his to lift and shift, or to access the exosuit, but the weak grip on his hand had twitched and clung a little more tightly – “Don’t let go. Please.”

The arrival of his youngest brother was a relief. He was directing Alan’s hands to move obstacles even as he picked his way over towards the exposed hand, wrist and arm Virgil had unearthed. With Alan’s assistance the large, partially splintered door preventing further excavation was finally removed to reveal a tiny cavity – a pocket of relatively clear space between mud, rock, brick and broken bits of what might have once been the child’s home. Virgil could now clearly see the child’s shoulder, a mop of dark, mud-streaked hair and the encouraging sight of the slight rise and fall of dirty blue fabric as the child drew shallow but steady breaths. He let go of the hand to reach his arm in and comb fingers through damp hair, moving it aside to find a grubby face.

“Hey, can you hear me?” softly uttered as his fingers brushed against a cheek that was cold beneath the glove.

God, she couldn’t be more than nine or ten years old. Dark brown eyes opened lazily and, recognising she wasn’t alone, the girl tried to move.

“Stay still,” he said, hand now resting firmly on her shoulder to try and reinforce the instruction. “We’re gonna get you out.”

As they worked to free her Virgil recognised enough Spanish to understand her whimpered, desperate cries for her parents, and complaints about the cold. Her legs were all but buried in the near-freezing muddy sludge.

Virgil relinquished his position to Alan, who’s slight frame enabled him to crawl further into the cavity and get a good hold on the girl’s now exposed and shivering torso so Virgil could work on extracting her lower body. A shift of a piece of what might have once been a table caused a small avalanche of rubble to tumble away to his right and down the newly formed slope. The shift in surface debris revealed a glimpse of fabric, a patch of skin, and Virgil’s heart leapt for a moment in hope until he caught sight of the glazed eyes and dragged his attention away again. No urgency required there.

Instead he concentrated on freeing the girl’s legs, and soon Alan was able to lift her free of the confined space and take her in his arms. The mediscanner revealed no major injuries, but her core temperature was worryingly low. She had been remarkably lucky. Virgil wrapped her up in an emergency blanket, the metallic material crinkling loudly as Alan readjusted his hold, cradling her in his arms so he could carry her back to Thunderbird Two. Virgil watched them go, his brother picking his way carefully over the unsteady terrain, before turning his attention back to the newly exposed victim.

He made his way carefully down to the woman, wondering if this was the little girl’s mother, and trying to blink away the tears he felt forming. He reached out to the cold body, fingers searching in vain for a pulse he knew he would not find. With a resigned sigh that almost became a sob, he scanned the immediate area with eyes and hands and soon revealed a second body half buried under more rubble and mud. He checked this one too. Male. Cold. Lifeless. Nothing more he could do.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial

Title: don't trust the next-door neighbor

Word count: 810

Wattpad

Her body feels cold and stiff; those are the only feelings she can discern at the moment. It reminds her of the times when she was still at college, when after pulling all-nighters and her body would feel to heavy to lift itself up in the morning, and yet, somehow, she would always manage to get up from bed. She cannot move now.

She tries to turn her head with the intention of looking around, but her neck muscles feel like the steel ropes keeping together a bridge. She tries to peek from the corner of her eye; at least her eyes can move.

She takes a look around; the place, wherever she is, looks pristine, with clean white tiles composing the walls that surround her, and the roof matching in color, with a texture that reminds her of granite. One single light bulb hangs from the ceiling, causing strange shadows she cannot decipher. There is a strange white wooden door to her left, and a metallic table with scratching marks to her right with a transparent bag filled with something dark red and wet on top of it.

She looks down to her lap and notices that she is sitting on a chair, just as if she were in the living room of her house waiting for guests to come over or watching a show on the television. She tries to move her limbs. when that doesn’t work, she attempts to flex her fingers and toes with no avail. Her eyes narrow just the slightest when she realizes that she doesn’t recognize the dress she is wearing.

She hears a sound coming from behind her, some heavy boots colliding against concrete stairs coming from somewhere above— she must be in a basement. She feels the panic rising up in a bubble through her throat, but she cannot take huge gulps of air or move her lungs to inhale.

The sound of boots is getting closer with every second that passes, and yet, it feels like it takes an eternity before a man in a white suit stands in front of her.

She sees him in her periphery, extending his hand and gently grasping a loose lock of hair. “I imagine you’re awake”, he says, sending a grim shiver down her spine.

The man closes in the gap between them and kisses her forehead tenderly. She urges her body to move, but all her senses betray her and she remains still. Her eyes widen when she recognizes him. She has seen a couple of times pass her apartment hallway— an unremarkable man with an unremarkable face. The only thing worth mentioning about him it’s his gentle pale eyes. She had helped him a couple times, bringing him groceries when his feet were too swollen and cooking him dinner when his hands were too stiff due to his advanced arthritis.

“You’ve always been good to me, sweetheart”, he says in a sickly-sweet tone. The lasciviousness in his stare contrasts sharply with his tender words.

He places one arm across her back and another one behind her knees. He lifts her up with ease, and her head involuntarily ends up on his chest, on top where his heart it’s beating. She wants to scream him to let her go, but her cried protests and her whimpers die inside her head.

He shifts her against his shoulder and extends the hand that was holding the upper part of her body to his back pocket. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a shining metallic thing. He enters the key in the keyhole and twists it, opening the door that had piqued her curiosity before.

Her eyes adapt to the dim light of the room, decorated all over the place with bright red walls and dark red velvet couches. She is sat down on one of them. When her gaze lowers her at her lap, a sickening feeling forms in the pit of her stomach— there is another human being next to her. She raises her sight again, and it met by the terrified stare of another woman close to her age just two mere meters away from her.

Her body wants to panic, to shake uncontrollably and cry out with fear, but instead, her body is petrified and frozen as a cadaver. She hears his boots approaching her again and she closes her eyes at the sensation of his hot air in her ear.

“Don’t worry,” he says, kissing her on the lips, “you will make a fine addition”. He closes the door behind him.

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt ‘cold body’.

Fingers sickly to a touch. Was the fabric always rough? The scrape of a glove pulled tight fingers curled to icy claws. White, the world in fading light Legs no longer feel like yours

A body frozen, ploughing on Skin that’s burning for the sun. At last, the orange glow ahead A desperate gasp for waning eyes Heavy now, your feet do tread Like a moth that for the candle flies

Blinded, the door open wide It burns but still you step inside The colours of the world within! Shades of yellow, red and green The pigments swarm your aching skin No barren white there to be seen

Cheeks and fingers burn and itch; the sharpest pleasure of a scratch It’s nothing to delightful pain The burning mug between your palms The precious liquid that you drain A blissful rich and soothing calm

This is the 18th time joining @flashfictionfridayofficial ! Thank you for the inspiring prompt! Hope you enjoy!

T/W: non

Word Count: 985

Nila(she/her): leader of caravan

Gagan (he/him): village elder

Roshan (he/him): ex-commander of the ancient kingdom

Arta: Roshan’s ally

Nila can still hear the echo of the howling storm. 

It was such a terrible night, she thought.

She appreciates that now she and her fellow merchants are in a haven. A humble, stone-walled house is shielding them from the merciless snowstorm. The fire is burning in the heart of the room, filling the space with warmth and drowsiness. Her body was as cold as ice and as stiff as a rock a few hours ago. But now, she can feel her body reviving slowly. 

Everyone else is sleeping soundly after the dangerous journey. Nila sighs in relief and leans towards the fire. Then her eyes meet the ones of village elder Gagan, who owns the house. He is sitting directly opposite her and looking at her with thoughtful eyes. The flare is reflected on his light green-ish eyes. 

What a strange colour...Those eyes look like raw gold. 

Robust, young caravaneer and wrinkled yet dignified village chieftain stare at each other for a while. Then Gagan finally opens his mouth.

'So, you saw the Guardians and followed their ways?'

She nods.

'Yes. I saw something like... a human and a massive, beautiful snow leopard. I thought I was hallucinating. It was the toughest journey I've ever had in my 20 years of travelling with a caravanserai, you see. Most of the other merchants are well-experienced, but they had never seen a snowstorm like that. That was insane!' 

Gagan sighs deeply. 

'We do have that kind of snowstorm once every 200 years. You were too unfortunate. But at the same time, you are quite fortunate, too, as you've met the Guardians.'

'The Guardians really exist... I thought it was just folklore. I mean, it's not like we disregard those stories. It may contain warnings and advice. But still.' 

Her voice is full of curiosity, and that puts a subtle smile on Gagan's otherwise stern face. 

'Seems like you don't know the story behind these Guardians. Shall I entertain you with an old tale, the master of the caravan? Unfortunately, we can't offer that much, but I can still share a story.' 

'Yes, dear grand chieftain. Please.' 

Nila enthusiastically replies, her dark eyes sparkle with excitement. 

So the story begins.

*******************************************************************************************Commander Roshan of the kingdom of Iksa - ex-commander, to be more precise, was stumbling on the rocky road leading to the next town beyond the mountain. He was on the run for a while after the final defeat of his army. They were all proud, loyal warriors. They would never expect that they would be assigned to a rearguard, only to be abandoned by the main body of the rest of the army. 

No, it was not the kingdom that failed them. It was me who failed them. 

He managed to retreat with the whole unit. His quick decision to withdraw saved the lives of many. Yet, some lives slipped away from his desperate hands. One of them was his archrival and best ally, Arta. 

Arta was from an infamous old clan known for knowledge of dangerous, ancient magic such as shapeshifting. Arta was sent to Roshan as a hostage at first. Yet, eventually, they formed a strong friendship. Thanks to Arta, Roshan managed to establish alliances with Arta's clan. Roshan had never seen Arta transformed into something else, so he deemed the clans' story of transformation as a rumour. It was often the case that a small clan like theirs had to protect themselves with a fortress of myths and terrifying legends from the predatory neighbours.

Roshan still remembered the last look of Arta vividly. Too vivid that haunted him. Arta's strange amethyst eyes were full of resignation and compassion as if they foresaw the suffering Roshan would bear. Some survivors returned to the kingdom, but Roshan could not endure the shame and guilt. He chose exile. 

Countless days had passed. Around Roshan were formidable rocky mountains and biting cold wind. The world was very still as if everything fell asleep under the thick snow. But he suddenly heard a noise - a groaning somewhere higher. 

What is that? It must be someone in need of help.

Roshan bit his lip and struggled to move forward. He could not feel his legs nor hands anymore as the coldness crept into his scraggy body. Finally, he reached the top and saw a huge, beautiful snow leopard lying on the snow-covered ground. The animal had injured their foreleg and looked hungry and exhausted. The snow leopard stiffened their body as Roshan came close, groaning at him. Roshan took his breath - they had eyes of amethyst. A fragile hope awoke in his heart, then sunk again.

It can't be. 

He shook his head and carefully approached the wounded animal. They tried to smash him with their paw, yet eventually gave up. Roshan put whatever herbs he had, hoping that they had healing effects on leopards, too. They looked painfully skinny and malnourished.

Maybe I can save you this time. I offer you my life, so live.

Roshan put all the food he had in front of the leopard. He felt the tearing breeze take him in a cold embrace. The snow, now falling heavily, slowly covered the wounded snow leopard, and the man no longer moved. 

*******************************************************************************************

The roaring storm has left them. Only the gentle snoring of traders fills the room. 

'And nobody ever saw them again? Was that snow leopard Arta...?'

Eyes wide open, Nila asks hastily. 

'We never know. I heard this story from my great-grandparents, who heard it from their great-grandparents.'

Gagan shook his head.

'But one thing is certain.'

He adds with a gentle smile. 

'We have witnessed a man and a giant snow leopard guiding lost travellers the right way in the snowy mountains surrounding here. We make offerings to them at the beginning of winter so that they know that they are cared for as much as they care for us.' 

As Ice

Written for@flashfictionfridayofficial 121 prompt:Cold Body

Shivers The icy wind whipped through their clothes. But it isn’t just the wind that cause the shivers. Standing, they look down at the bodies that their climbing has disturbed.

“Ah hell!” One says miserably.

“Do you think they may be, still alive?” She asks. The men look at her like she is crazy. “Extreme cold slows down body functions. A cold body is more likely to..” She kneels down carefully beside them. Her hands run over the ice cold bodies. Even through her thick gloves, she can feel the cold.

“Anything?” She has reached the necks and mouths. Silence greets her attempts to find a pulse. With a sigh, she slowly shakes her head.

“Damn. It was a good thought. What now?”

“We call the cops, right?” the other man asks.

“Yeah. And we will need to stay here until they get here. That may take awhile, unless they copter in.” She looks up at the sky. The white flakes still fall. “Not good weather for flying.”

The call is made, the coordinates given. Now they wait. She stands and stomps around, trying to bring warmth back in her freezing feet and legs.

“How do you think it happened?” He nods to the two frozen people at his feet.

“They were probably hiking and got caught in an avalanche.”

“Yeah. Poor buggers.”

They all three turn away from the bodies as they await the police. A mistake. For they are very cold and want the warmth of the hikers. They reach up to grab at their legs. Screams echo around the mountain but no one hears.

Curses. Pleading. All fall on death ears as they are pulled under the snow. Snow is quiet. When their screams are swallowed by the snow, quiet reigns again. Deep under the snow cover, the warm bodies grow cold.

“These are the coordinates given.” One of the police officers said.

“Well, I see no bodies and no hikers.” His partner says.

“Kids playing tricks.”

Deep under the snow, they try to scream but are unheard.

“A waste of our time.” He mumbles. They leave.