Geoff's entry:
This is way past a joke. The humiliation of being tied naked to a tree by a gang of stag-night revellers is long gone. The night has turned deadly cold. Josh jerks his head up violently and sucks freezing air into his lungs. He chokes and squints, fighting for breath which chills him to the core. Panicking, he glares frantically around him, then cranks his head downwards, glimpsing his ‘cool’ clothes strewn across the frosty ground. He tries to cry out, but his teeth clatter together as his whole body convulses. He doesn’t remember how long he has been here or if he has even been conscious. He doesn’t care: he can’t stop shivering. The effects of so many mindless pints have been shaken out of him. His extremities feel crushed in a vice. He flails desperately to try and free himself but whatever was used to lash his hands together behind the tree now squeezes ridges of icy bark into his raw back. Gusts of bitter wind flay his trembling, blotchy skin. He flinches and peers down through the clouds of
breath he pants into the harsh air: tomorrow’s wedding night tackle will require a miracle, but this is the least of his problems as he strains to withstand the vicious drop in temperature. His aching eyes stare wide and frightened, glistening in the brittle moonlight. Flashes of Sarah’s radiant bride’s face taunt him in a frenzy of images. His involuntary gasps and spasms shock him into rapidly overwhelming despair. He realises he is losing control of body and mind. His hands and feet are numb. Buckling beneath this freezing onslaught, Sarah’s face is gone. Josh finally shudders to the terrifying reality that he’s going to die out here alone tonight.
Sally's entry:
It’s been two years since we saw the sun. Grey is the colour of everything: earth merges into sky into sea. It was the colour of the ash that fell after the whiteout explosion that blocked out the sun: and it’s also, I’ve realised, the colour of cold, not white like I’d thought, but grey and biting and cruel.
I wake shivering every morning: feet numb, skin clammy. I rub the ache from my raw fingers and blow on them hard: a little relief, but it doesn’t last long. I hop from foot to foot, hoping to stamp the chill from my bones. It’s pointless. Time to go and look for some food.
The wind is the worst of this unending winter. It searches out every last shred of warmth and snatches it away, merciless and greedy. It keeps us all inside, worlds shrunk to a few rooms and the struggle to stay alive.
It’s there again when I open my front door. Immediately, it scythes through my clothing, sending icy ripples up and down my skin. I lean into a raging wall of cold, the frost of the pavement stabbing up through thick leather soles into wincing feet. I squint my eyes against the biting chill but can‘t see far enough through reddened, watering lids to work out the balance between my survival and the distance to the rations store.
I’m long past goosebumps: my muscles shudder spasmodically, and I clench my teeth hard. I force myself to relax and for a second all is quiet, but then I move and my body convulses once more, leaping in protest. I begin to run, pushing my lukewarm syrupy blood through iced-up veins, but it’s more of a stagger. At last through the gloom the store door looms up. I lurch forward with one last shudder, and fall through.
Christine's entry:
First of January. About midday. Most sensible people would be nursing their hangover with glasses of mulled wine in front of a roaring fire. I’m standing on the beach, barefoot and in my towelling robe, the abject victim of my big mouth and yesterday’s high-spirited celebrations.
It’s all that smarmy Roger’s fault.
“It’ll give you the thrill of a life-time, Liz. We do it every year, and we emerge feeling reborn.”
My shivering body is smeared with cold-cream – hot-cream not being an option.
They’re shedding their robes. I spot three men with more body hair than some chimpanzees I’ve met. That’s cheating, I reckon. The women look like amazons – great wielders of frying pans and rolling pins. There are also some wiry men of indeterminate age, already cryogenically deep-frozen and impervious to the arctic conditions.
I drop my robe – ready to endure my ordeal. I stride heroically into the glacial waters and the shock has me gasping for air. I can feel a massive heart attack coming on, but grit my teeth and march on. Then one deep breath and I dive right in.
Despite the paralysing effect of the icy water I thrash around wildly. The idea being that vigorous exercise might generate enough warmth to counteract the immediate onset of rigor mortis. My fingers go white and I’m getting a cramp in my right foot.
Clenched grins on surrounding faces testify to the general enjoyment of our treat. I fix a replica on my own mug – hoping to stop the castanet-clattering of my teeth.
My body temperature is plummeting towards absolute zero. My survival depends on thick thermal clothing, a fire and that glass of mulled wine. I stagger ashore and collide with Roger.
“You’re a star, Liz. See you next year?”
“Only if it’s snowing,” I hiss.
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