Emily Federico

Her bright orange jacket glides across the snow and the skis swish through the icy powder.  She came for the crunch of snow under her skis and the rush of the frostbitten wind against her cheeks.  The pompom bobbles with every step of her skis and her breath condenses in the mountain air.  She doesn’t falter in her step; instead she rushes past me without a single word.  The scent of lilac drifts behind me.  The mountain is her escape, the place where she can unwind and escape the madness of her hectic life as a publisher in New York City.   She comes for the solitude of the pines and the quiet, a sweet relief from the bustle and chaos of New York.  Here the maddening din of taxis and pedestrians late for their 9-5 jobs are replaced by nylon skiers, content to swish by with a passive nod, and the soft creak of the aging ski lift.  She comes to drink hot chocolate in a lodge decked in Budwesier signs and wood paneling, instead of the glass prison ...

Momentary Blindness   The sound of bodies hitting walls and shoes scuffing on plastic rocks reverberates in the cavernous room.  My harness clinks against the flesh of my backpack with each step and the sole of my shoes poke against the fabric, a physical nudge to start climbing. The sweet scent of magnesium carbonate hits my nose as I place my hand inside the chalk bag.  The powder is smooth against my fingers, soft against the blisters rupturing across my knuckles.  My feet bounce on the landing pad as I walk up towards the wall.  I can hear the shouts of my friends as they encourage each other further up, their voices blending together into a medley of support and trust.  One of my friends has started to panic about the height of her ascent, her panicked voice carrying a hint of shrillness and stifled laughter.  I can hear the snickering of the front desk person as she continues to contemplate her doom and the soft click of an ever-presen...