Markers on Edge

Prologue

It was a dark snowy winter day. The breeze blew through the dark and eerie lands of Canada. Winds came in and froze the lakes. In the caves, the bears were peacefully hibernating. And flocks of birds migrating to the United States. The icy wind blew over countless driveways with ice two inches deep. The family's water and the heat were dissipating. All slowly faded and soon ceased from half the land. A man and his family, barely hanging on, ran out of wood. The man, Griffin, was their only hope.

"Goodbye, love you guys!"

"Love you too, be back around 7 for dinner, be safe." Griffin's wife, Ruby, called out from the dark kitchen. The cold air whistled through the barren trees. He was drowning in coats and jackets; Griffin took small steps because of the coat weight, surprisingly never slipping or falling. He waddled for some time. All it was was pure white snow, being stomped on by men, thriving to help their family survive. Huge, bluish-whitish icicles hang down from the adjacent rooftops of houses. He stopped when he felt the snow pelting him like hail. A horrific blizzard was on the horizon, breaching havoc among the villagers. He can not run because the weight is like he was giving a grown man a piggyback ride. Strong, icy winds blew in. Out of all the winters these men have experienced, this is, by far, the most insane. Griffin glared at the other men, slowly ceasing to be visible. He threw the coats off and bolted back to his house, his skin frostbit. The gloomy dark sky and the thousands of snow pellets made it look like his home had disappeared. He bolted the other way, running past several houses that had managed to stay warm, lucky. Griffin, reaching a dead-end, noticed he was losing balance. The wind blew him off the side of the cliff. There he was, falling, like a fever dream.

He fell into an industrial-looking place. The warmth of machinery and hot plastic warmed him, and Griffin felt like it was paradise. But the ardent man knew something was not right. While observing the desolate factory, he felt something seeping out of his hands. Clots of orange slid down onto the ground forming a staining puddle. He glanced down, and his arms were triangles. Griffin had three fingers, but the arm took the shape of an acute triangle. His legs were the same but no fingers or toes. He ran to the red-hot plastic, staining the ground, trying to see his reflection through the liquid. His head was a circle, and his chest/torso, you guessed it, was an acute triangle. He looked like a cartoon; he ran through the empty factory and saw a towering supply of neon orange ink, the same color as his body.

"Am I a ma-marker?" Griffin yelled.

He does not know what he has done; Griffin has stamped and inaugurated a new future.