Fake Snow and Fast Skiers
Everyone's so fast. Shooting over the ridge from nowhere, skis landing perfectly parallel and out of sight again right away.
I know those ridges. They're called blind hills, if you're being technical. But approaching from above, it's a cliff. Just a flat line between snow and horizon, a sheet of paper so sharp and white you could cut yourself on the edge. All the ski trails lead over the edge, into the void, and your mind says, Okay, right over there, no worries, there's a hill on the other side, and your subconscious says, STOP! Oh my God, it's a cliff! Stop stop stop!
The cliff doesn't faze other skiers; they pop over the edge like they're shot from a gun. Pop-pop-pop. Or like soap squilping out of wet hands and down, swimming around the drain while you scramble in panic.
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