Page 57 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. Iv #8

Sweat beads on his brow, even in this cold, as he looks down into the valley where skeleton trees give way to houses and the occasional pair of prowling headlights.
followed her, and brought Randal with him. Didn’t he know that dog could stumble right over the cliff? What was he going to do, apologize? No, tell her how stupid she was for sitting in the snow on a cold day. Stupider than riding the wave of air right off the cliff? Well, maybe she should be the judge of that. She would lead him to believe that she’d simply taken a long walk. Yes, much better. So she stands up, brushes the snow off, and greets Randal.
Randal trundles on ahead and Gabe makes out footprints, about the size of Elena’s, next to Randal’s round ones. So, she is up there. Prob- ably wanting to be alone. What the hell, he’s concerned. Mad, but concerned. This part of the climb is a nothing but a steep draw unstable with loose rock, and his feet struggle in the treacherous snow. Then he hears Randal bark his greeting, and Elena’s voice rise and fall as it would around pets and kids, when she was try- ing to hide her surprise and annoyance.
Gabe grabs a branch of juniper and swings up next to them onto the small flat place at the top of the trail. So close she feels his breath, but he doesn’t touch her. He must still be pissed. Well, she is too.
At the top of the hill the woman turns at the sound of the dog. A flash of furry orange weaves in and out of the brush up the snowy hillside, catching the last of the receding sun. Following behind, a man struggles up the steep, icy ter- rain. Elena holds the stone tighter. Oh no, he’d
“What the hell do you think you’re doing up here?” he asks.
“Nice to see you too.”
Inside her pocket she squeezes the stone, and
48
(continued on page 59 )
oil pastel on paper
paper weaving
pen on paper