I set out to experiment with voice but ended up with this instead. It’s a first draft, unrefined. Enjoy?

Sven stood up and stretched, yawning. The ice may be cold on his hands, but he was still falling asleep out here. Not wise to sleep on the ice surface of a normally raging river.

He trudged along home, and as he did so, his mind turned to thoughts of wonder, awe. What were the others up to, he wondered. Before they had died and gone on to heaven, they’d hang back outdoors with him, breathing in the icy air and exhaling miniature clouds of coldness.

Tim, not so tiny Tim, he’d lay back on the ice next to Sven, soaking everything up alongside him, breathing in life, exhilaration.

Ryan, and Evan – they’d be off on more safely solid ground over by the large tree, some sort of snow fort and an ever-growing supply of snowballs. Every few minutes a wild snowball would veer off course and sail over the tops of Sven and Tim’s heads, far from the intended target.

Alex, kind Alex would be on the opposite side of the river – home side – playing with, or against, Ryan and Evan, casually tossing a snowball that would directly hit one of the two and halt their snowball-building endeavors for a momentary barrage of snowballs in Alex’s direction. Alex was the oldest of them, playful and wise depending on what a person needed.

Nick was closest to Sven’s age, a little more than a month apart, and they were the most like brothers, the closest, deepest friends. But out here, Nick wandered on his own, staring at the stars, one arm around a tree swinging himself as he stared off into space, lost in his own thoughts or whatever his mind did.

But now they were all gone.

A tear trickled from Sven’s eye, the only sign that he wasn’t simply cold. Come Monday, he would have to tell someone – they’d find out anyway. He’d already raged, paced furiously and screamed and screamed into a pillow. He’d already cried and cried and cried, like a little boy scraped on the knee. He begged to the sky, to anyone that might hear, pleaded to have his brothers back. Sure, they weren’t really brothers, but they might as well have been, and he’d begged and begged that he would wake up and they would all be okay and everything would be back to normal.

But it wasn’t. And he knew it wouldn’t be. He couldn’t bring himself to call their parents – they shared parents as if they really were family – and even the thought of telling them made Sven collapse to the ground wheezing through gasps of pain that sunk into gentle crying and tears.

Monday.

Monday everyone would find out. Monday he would tell them. If only he’d died with them – it wasn’t fair that he’d lived when not a single one of them had. It wasn’t.

He punched the tree right by the house, bowed his head and rested it on the trunk.

They weren’t coming back. They weren’t.

He gasped. The pain hurt so bad! His heart wanted to explode from his chest, wanted to break free and die from the pain.

Once more, he wept, holding onto the tree, as if doing so might somehow bring them back. Eventually the tears slowed back to a trickle and he wiped them away. A cold wind blew passed him, further chilling his nearly numb face, reminding him it was cold outside.

Sven breathed in deep the cold air, exhaling slowly. He sniffed.

Monday.

He’d tell them all Monday when he had to, no sooner. They could wait that long, let him honor the memories of the dead he held dear.

Sven stepped inside.