Jeska_2RR
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- Posted: Fri, 31 Oct 2014 05:14:21 +0000
As a content marketing manager, I do a fair amount of writing for work, but this is my first personal fiction of any length in years. I'm looking for thoughts, comments, critique...
The woods we walked through grew more and more desolate and felt more hopeless the farther we journeyed. We’re looking for something - or was it someone? - but we don’t know what. We’re close friends, but I don’t know who they are. We find what we’re looking for - it’s a necklace, but there’s something wrong with it. The necklace starts to turn his hand into stone. Meanwhile, we look up and realize that the sky is darkening, and fast. Both cause him the fling the necklace aside - there are more important things to worry about. We stumble along, trying to find shelter, when suddenly the trees become fort walls, and blankets cover the forest floor. Just in time, because they’re coming.
They hop and walk and prowl toward us, separating us, dividing us. We dive under the blankets, each of us desperately trying to pin the edges down under our bodies, trying to keep them out. Now we get a closer look at them.
If we weren’t so terrified of them, they’d be cute. They’re small and black, the biggest reaching no higher than my knees, and the kind of black that light goes into and doesn’t escape. Except... except I can see the glint of feathers on some that are vaguely bird shaped, gloss of fur on the mammal shaped, and the shine of scales on the snake shaped. And there’s one perfectly round and furry and spiky, like a tribble. I’m not sure why we’re afraid of them, and I almost let my guard down until one of them speaks. It sounds like a child: a happy, giggly, obnoxious child.
“Is this the suicide?” the cat-ish one purrs, as it pulls my blanket away with a paw-like-thing. I desperately grab at the blanket, securing it to the ground.
“Yes, yes I believe it is, and over there is the...” I stop listening as I realize what they’re implying about me. Still, the tribble-ish talks about us, referring to us by our deaths.
“Oh, I just love suicides. So insecure. So weak. So selfish.” the cat-ish one continues. I wish they would go away, but I know that won’t happen until the sun comes up, and we have hours to go. Until then, I maneuver to keep my blanket down and to not listen to them call me “the suicide,” and I can hear my friends doing the same.
When the sun comes up, the fort walls are no longer they’re - we’re in a family member's living room. The black animal-adjacents have retreated to the walls and furniture, but they appear to now be safe. My friends and I stand up and look at each other, surprised and unsure about what is happening.
gaia_nitemareleft
The woods we walked through grew more and more desolate and felt more hopeless the farther we journeyed. We’re looking for something - or was it someone? - but we don’t know what. We’re close friends, but I don’t know who they are. We find what we’re looking for - it’s a necklace, but there’s something wrong with it. The necklace starts to turn his hand into stone. Meanwhile, we look up and realize that the sky is darkening, and fast. Both cause him the fling the necklace aside - there are more important things to worry about. We stumble along, trying to find shelter, when suddenly the trees become fort walls, and blankets cover the forest floor. Just in time, because they’re coming.
They hop and walk and prowl toward us, separating us, dividing us. We dive under the blankets, each of us desperately trying to pin the edges down under our bodies, trying to keep them out. Now we get a closer look at them.
If we weren’t so terrified of them, they’d be cute. They’re small and black, the biggest reaching no higher than my knees, and the kind of black that light goes into and doesn’t escape. Except... except I can see the glint of feathers on some that are vaguely bird shaped, gloss of fur on the mammal shaped, and the shine of scales on the snake shaped. And there’s one perfectly round and furry and spiky, like a tribble. I’m not sure why we’re afraid of them, and I almost let my guard down until one of them speaks. It sounds like a child: a happy, giggly, obnoxious child.
“Is this the suicide?” the cat-ish one purrs, as it pulls my blanket away with a paw-like-thing. I desperately grab at the blanket, securing it to the ground.
“Yes, yes I believe it is, and over there is the...” I stop listening as I realize what they’re implying about me. Still, the tribble-ish talks about us, referring to us by our deaths.
“Oh, I just love suicides. So insecure. So weak. So selfish.” the cat-ish one continues. I wish they would go away, but I know that won’t happen until the sun comes up, and we have hours to go. Until then, I maneuver to keep my blanket down and to not listen to them call me “the suicide,” and I can hear my friends doing the same.
When the sun comes up, the fort walls are no longer they’re - we’re in a family member's living room. The black animal-adjacents have retreated to the walls and furniture, but they appear to now be safe. My friends and I stand up and look at each other, surprised and unsure about what is happening.
gaia_nitemareright