The White Hart
It was cold, bitterly cold. Devon tried to shake his head, he felt trapped. I should never have left the car. I should never have tried to drive the car. Too much alcohol, too little sense. He wondered if anyone at the party would notice that he was gone. And now his arrogance, his stupidity was going to be his fatal undoing. It was a snowstorm for God’s sake!
Devon’s body started to shiver, violently. It was trying desperately to warm up. As his body struggled to stay alive, his mind struggled to remember. A whisper of a memory seeped to the surface. There was a tale, a story told to children about The White Hart. A magnificent beast that would save lost travellers. It would appear out of the mist, its head held high, antlers gleaming. The mere sight of it gave strength to the weary and hope to the wretched. Devon forced his eyes to open, slightly. He tried to raise his arm, he could not. With a last burst of strength he opened his mouth and . . . . belched?
“Hon! You took all the blankets again! It’s bloody freezing! I gotta pee!”