The Fire of Ice Mountain

Poem | Duration: 1 Minute 45 Seconds

Dear Reader,

Thank you for opening this letter of tales and imagination. There’s a special relationship between reader and writer, something unique to the medium. Without you, there’s no story. True, the writer facilitates the journey, but it all comes alive when you, the reader, make it truly amazing. So here’s a story written for you, and I can’t wait to see what you make of it. Welcome to The Storyletter! ~ WM



Over the white plains and through the dead forests of Cold, wander folk roamed in tribes.

Until the ice storms destroyed much of the world, forcing the tribes to unite to survive.

Always moving, always searching for a brief respite from the burdens that weighed upon their lives.

Then, on one fateful day, a black column rose against the backdrop of white, beckoning the attention of their eyes. 

The wander folk gazed up in bewilderment, curious as to what could create such a contrasting haze in the skies.

It compelled them for weeks, their skeletal frames driven to discover the true nature of the billowing rise.

And when the great tribe emerged from the ghostly wilds they were filled with tentative surprise.

A jagged mountain of immense size was on the horizon with smoke erupting as if in fiery demise.

Yet, the blue-white freeze remained capped atop black, frost-bitten peaks, birds circling above like flies.

The tribe split, a new leader guiding them to Ice Mountain, far away from the ones spouting dissuading lies.

Upon the mountain, the incomprehensible warmth of Heaven gave way to wails and cries.

A new home, full of wonder and possibility where the end of shivering nights was now a dream realized.

The fire of Ice Mountain generated an everlasting heat at its core that formed generations of ego and pride.

Centuries passed and the mountain folk forgot the ways of the past, unfamiliar with the terror in the darkness that once haunted them from all sides.

A fire only burns so bright before the energy of the universe determines when and how it dies. 

And so when Hell came to melt the souls of Cold, the unsuspecting mountain folk fled their comforting prize.

The world as they knew it was forever gone, Ice Mountain smothered with streams of volcanic tides.

The mountain folk crept back into the glacial frigidity of night where every moment had been a miraculous fight to be alive.

Icy-blue glares from the wander folk, who had retained the knowledge of their forebears, met their pathetic, former allies.

The mountainless folk collapsed to their knees, shaking and pleading, but the wander folk turned their backs and disappeared, leaving them to face a dispassionate sunrise.


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Thanks for reading! Until next Storyletter ~ WM