The Cold Hill (written by Universal Monk)

In 1864, upon a nameless hill, a man carved his wrists, blood pooling in the frostbitten mud.

One last murder.

He could hear the dark red snow under him shift and creak, surrendering to warmth.

His eyes, wet with regret, fixed on a moon drowned in roiling clouds.

He recalled his grandmother, her tattered Book of Mormon a warm solace. Soon, he’d finally discover if divine forgiveness was real.

At dawn, Union scouts found his frozen husk.

“Press on, men!” yelled the captain. “I know this man to be a coward. Take his gun. Let the animals have at him.”