Ragged undulations and watery craters define the pockmarked contours of the monster that is no man’s land. It quivers beneath its frost-hardened carapace of soil, scattered body parts and crusted blood, punctured by the ragged quills of the splintered treeline. It is ravening, insatiable and will swallow, without trace, friend or foe alike. But for
Ice crystals zig-zag their way haphazardly across the cracked window, their fine, lace-like tentacles spreading ever outwards, multiplying, clinging on despite the smoothness of the surface. Wafts of cold, midnight air steal through every chink, hurrying on up the staircase, slipping under bedroom doors, nipping at noses and ears and peeping-out toes. At dawn, Millie
