The Sunday Whirl

The white corridor lay before me. The last refugee of warm air escaped in foggy breaths. My distant target seemed like millions of moguls away and I could hear the crack of my previous attempt the year before, when I broke my femur. A few lodge staff of the ski resort had fled to my side to see if I was alive. Gadgets to carry the winter wonderland victims were assembled and I was carried into the medical unit. I was soon added to the list to track losses of customers. However, I returned, determined to tackle the black ski slope once more—probably a bad decision.


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