“Next oxygen station is about a mile ahead.” Brain’s voice rings in my ears like TV static as I tug my boot free from an icy crater, my eyes narrowed ahead at the distant clouds that hang in the air over what I can only imagine to be the summit. The summit. The word rattles around in my brain. It’s what I’ve been working toward for half a year of my life. A surge of motivation floods through my veins as I dig my boots into the snow and grip the straps of the massive backpack that holds everything I need in order to survive. We move for what seems like ages, the wind biting at my cheeks, feeling like being pricked with needles, and my nose running uncontrollably. “How far have we gone?” I ask Brian, shaking my gloved hands to regain any warmth they once had. “I assume it’s been about a quarter of a mile now...
Creative writing and reading reviews by West Hills High School Readers and Writers Club members