'GANS ON ICE

by Lucille D'ecoupage

The is no horizon, no delineation. Only bleak, endless grey. No sky, no shore. Only wind. Cold. The squawk of boot leather on ice, tensile, threatening. Comfort is a thing of the past. Warmth only a distant memory. To uncover the face long enough to watch as the ship is crushed under the unfathomable weight of the ice is to have your soul wrenched from you and all hope vanquished. Life is now measured in seconds, each bringing to light the miracle of breath. Exhalation frozen into crystal before one's very eyes... And finally, practically underfoot, the upturned hull of the launch. Abandoned once again by the mutinous crew.

They scurry underneath, out of the wind's heinious grip and huddle together for what little warmth they can generate. They are lost. The small boat seemingly placed before them by some mischievous God, unsatisfied with his work, wanting to prolong their suffering.

Larsfeldt reached into his cloak and extracted a small piece of purplish meat. He knawed on it secretively until, aghast, the Doctor recognised it as part of a human thigh.