This was one of the Challenge responses - basically the first paragraph, you may remember it. I have elaborated on it and made a story.
By Beverleigh Annegarn
Icy earth breathed on our rosy faces. Moon silently gleamed, lighting snow flakes for our night walk. We ambled at will, not knowing the direction of the shed. Landscape had changed; it had been transformed by layers of white powder. It held secrets close, as close as a mother with a baby suckling at her breast. The old oak tree stored tales; it too had witnessed unsavoury happenings in the forest. The oaks roots curled helplessly when the slayings took place.
Nick lived in Park Wood village as child, he had polio and severe acne in his teenage years. His peers mocked him, hid his crutches and suggested that his face was like a moon - with craters on it. He suffered their remarks he resisted retaliation. He had scars inside and out. When Nick was eighteen he left the village. The residents believed he had passed away. Mother Nick knew he had gone to be alone. She left him to bandage his wounds. She knew when he needed something he would return. He had been sited and we were sent to probe.
It was a bright sunny day when Nick crept into town, concealed by the pine forest he zig zagged closer under the oaks, nearer to view the town centre. There was his White Dove, running errands for her Grandmother. He had known her for years. An unkind word had never been thought of by her beautiful head. In the forest there was a red Post Office bench and he sat there for ages waiting for White Dove to emerge from the supermarket. Through the glass he could see Martin. Martin worked as a cashier, he had worked there for years. He drank in the local pub in the evenings. Often there were bloody fights and smashed cars. Martin was always sober in the morning. Martin was assisting his White Dove. Ah, there she was, floating like a feather on a puff of air, he called to her and she focused into the shadows and because she had not seen him for ages, she walked towards the bench.
This was his chance, his chance to capture his White Dove. He had to act quickly. He did not want the villagers to see her walking towards him, and him whisking her away by force. Oh, her complexion, it was as smooth as fresh snow. Dark eyelashes circled her sparkling eyes. He felt her presence; it was like a rainstorm after a long drought. He felt his skin; it was like a sponge, it absorbed her airborne moisture. His breath was rapid as his heart. They chatted, and then she looked like she was going to leave. Nick started to panic. His hands became hot, perspiration trickled down his back and his upper lip twitched under his moustache. Just then his White Dove saw a mother goose with her chicks. She abandoned her shopping on the bench and followed them deeper into the forest. Nick followed, carrying the shopping basket. If the shopping was left on the bench it might have been a clue to her whereabouts. This way, his White Dove would vanish. His White Dove would vanish from the village and reappear with him forever.
Nick had planned this day for many years. His shed was sparse and meagre. Under the floor boards was a haven for his White Dove. He managed to lead her there. Once inside he locked the door. Her eyes became dark, her eyelashes sodden. She understood his pain. But, she did not know why she was destined to soothe his torture. For fear of violence she did not cry-out as he led her to her haven under the floor boards. The haven was cozy. His White Dove must enjoy her stay with him.
Geese and pheasant were slayed in the forest for their meals. Nick would take the shopping basket and collect mushrooms for their dinners. Nick looked after his White Dove. He caressed her constantly with his care and attention. Nick was very happy for many years. His White Dove was missed in the village. The absent minded Policeman mislaid his notes and statements. White Dove was not free.
We walked further into the white forest. The snow still falling, we were blinking it way with our eyelashes. A hunter had told us of the shed and said he had seen Nick ‘around and about’ it was our task to investigate. A clearing led us to the old wooden shed. There were no lights on. We knocked at the door. Nobody answered. We forced the door open with ease, inside was a neat hand carpentered table and one chair, a washing bowl on a stand, our torch focussed on the carpet. It was a Persian carpet. A strange place for a Persian carpet. On lifting the carpet we found a trapdoor revealing a carefully nailed staircase. The staircase led down into White Dove's haven. Our light focussed on the faded flowers gathered by Nick for his beloved White Dove. In the arm chair was corpse covered by a tartan blanket. On the bed was a body, it looked like a body of a child. Faded blonde hair covered the pillow, the pillow that had absorbed tears enough to fill the ocean. We opened the trapdoor too late, but, White Dove was finally free.