Post by kiwi15189 on Dec 30, 2006 15:55:26 GMT -5
Part One: Escape
Dark and small. I no longer feel safe in this place. The empty box it really is. Chills run down my spine. A spirit is here. A being, untraceable by human sight, telling me his story. The room grows impossibly darker, the single torch flickers wildly before going out. Visions of his death follow, the room no longer existent. What he shows me become my surroundings.
I bang on the door trying to get out. I was supposed to be safe in this new land far from England, safe from witch-hunts. Then they left me in here helpless, trying to make me talk to their dead. I brush my cursed unruly black hair out of my face and try the door once more, to find myself come hurtling out of the room into a larger room full of onlookers, their mouths agape.
I must look manic, breaking through the door, my deep green eyes reflecting the candlelight. I take one look around and find my exit, a nearly straight line through a crowd too shocked to do naught but stare. The spirit follows me, taking advantage of my escape. He must have died in the room, a fate I myself escaped narrowly.
“After her!” a man shouts, shattering the silence.
I run.
Part Two: Before
Cauchemar canters easily through the fields almost as if she’s floating. The boys I’m racing to the other side call out in aggravation, their workhorses move slowly used to a farmers pace. Cauchemar moves charmingly, a dark bay mare built strongly but much smaller than the horses used to clear fields. I ask Cauchemar to halt, waiting for the others to catch up, having a laugh at the look on their faces that a girl riding a mare with no saddle or bridle beat them.
Dark and small. I no longer feel safe in this place. The empty box it really is. Chills run down my spine. A spirit is here. A being, untraceable by human sight, telling me his story. The room grows impossibly darker, the single torch flickers wildly before going out. Visions of his death follow, the room no longer existent. What he shows me become my surroundings.
I bang on the door trying to get out. I was supposed to be safe in this new land far from England, safe from witch-hunts. Then they left me in here helpless, trying to make me talk to their dead. I brush my cursed unruly black hair out of my face and try the door once more, to find myself come hurtling out of the room into a larger room full of onlookers, their mouths agape.
I must look manic, breaking through the door, my deep green eyes reflecting the candlelight. I take one look around and find my exit, a nearly straight line through a crowd too shocked to do naught but stare. The spirit follows me, taking advantage of my escape. He must have died in the room, a fate I myself escaped narrowly.
“After her!” a man shouts, shattering the silence.
I run.
Part Two: Before
Cauchemar canters easily through the fields almost as if she’s floating. The boys I’m racing to the other side call out in aggravation, their workhorses move slowly used to a farmers pace. Cauchemar moves charmingly, a dark bay mare built strongly but much smaller than the horses used to clear fields. I ask Cauchemar to halt, waiting for the others to catch up, having a laugh at the look on their faces that a girl riding a mare with no saddle or bridle beat them.