The other day, (August 26, 2011, if you’re one of those type who are into precision, and all that.) I sat down with my journal, my favorite pen, and wrote three little notes to myself.
- I’m setting my timer for 15 minutes, and then writing.
- I shall not edit myself
The drums were beating loudly-much louder than I’d ever heard them before. The sound throbbed in my ears, resonated in my head, and then dribbled down into a scared little lump somewhere in my chest.
As I ran the raindrops beat against the ground, splashing back up with their own force, before settling down to turn the forest floor into a muddy soup of bugs, twigs, deadleaves, and a few scared runners- like me.
My skirt was soaked- no, worse than soaked- drenched, swallowed up in some giant’s mouth, and then spat out spitefully, leaving me wet, cold, and scared.
One foot in front of another at first, but now I couldn’t even feel them- my own feet, numb, bleeding I was sure (oh, how the trackers would love that!), tangling up in my wet, wet skirts, tripping me, but never, never ceasing.
I could imagine their hands on the drums. Smacking up and down with a cool precision, glowing slightly blue in the strange light of their torches. Only the highest, the greatest wore any sort of adornment- the others- those who beat the drums would be dressed in plain dark clothing that contrasted strangely with their pale skin.
Not that I could talk- lowest of the low, but with my best skirt on. I had thought it looked pretty, made me- what was that word again? beautiful. And now I was stumbling through the forest like a crazy animal, tripping as I put my foot through the hem of the expensive-too expensive, really- fabric.
Tripping again and again but always picking myself back up until at last I couldn’t hear the pounding of the drums for my gasping breaths, and allowed my self, finally, to trip, fall ,and lay there.
I dug my hands deep into the squelching mud that surrounded me until-
And that’s when my alarm rang.
So? What do you think? I said I was trying to write more- it’s kind of a leap of faith for me to post this in a public space, since generally when I write something I come back to it a couple of years (or months.) later and think, Good Gravy, what was I thinking? (and then I run to my mother, and thank her for never letting me set up a fan-fiction.net account.)
Anywhoodles, poll time.