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So I was searching through some old documents from high school and I came across this story beginning. I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking when I wrote it. It's interesting, though, to see stuff like this. To wonder about what my thought processes were when I wrote this originally.
Anyway, read and enjoy. Let me know what you think of it. And have any of you ever done anything similar to this? The whole writing and forgetting thing?
The skies had the torn, malevolent look about that sometimes comes about as a result of a massive thunderstorm. The clouds, mists, and atmospheres thrashed and quarreled about, and the sun, having finished its daily patrol of the heavens, sank steadily into the horizon, adding to the surreal nature of the evening.
The shrubs, weeds, and grasses had all but lost their color and detail. All that remained of them were the sharp, black silhouettes against the furnace-like glow overhead. Dusk, if any important soul had been present to bother calling it as such, had warped and distorted the shapes of the shades and shadows, leaving an eerie army of silent mysteries about the hills.
The time was at hand for the evening’s changing of the guard, during which the bickering, bitter insects of the day’s heat surrendered their posts to the dancing, orchestral night insects. The only sounds to be heard were the breathing and footfalls of a man.
He was running neither from danger now towards salvation. He was not running to a lover or away from a foe. In fact, if any other intelligent being had been there to ask, the running man would have no answer as to where, why, or how long he was running. His pace was neither a sprint nor a jog. He was graceless and static in form, yet he did not stumble, trip, fall, or show any signs of physical fatigue in any way. Oh, his brow was glossed with perspiration, of course, and his torn, mistreated out garments were darkened from sweat and stuck to his torso. His countenance, however, displayed no sign of distress.
The man had his own subconscious thought stream which that compelled him to run. Deep within the tangled mass of grey matter between his ears, sequences of synaptic firing manifested out of nothing and pushed his legs forward. The man did not fight against, attempt to explain, or argue with the compulsion. Somewhere in his memory he could vaguely recall warnings, cautions, pleas, and even commands to not do what he was now doing, but he was doing it. He was listening, for once, to a power beyond will, love, hate, or material obsession.
He leaned forward slightly, as the toes of his boots, dried and cracked with age and use, dug into the dusty soil of the ancient path, and quickened his pace. Everything made sense. He had to push himself harder. He had to run faster, faster. His strides lengthened, and, had he been able to recognize the old acquaintance, he would have felt his chest begin to pull itself apart with a burning pain.
Faster we went. The dark silhouettes began to merge into a grey-black blur as his run became a dash and then a sprint. His eyes narrowed on the hazy, dimly lit trail in front of him. The clouds seemed to bleed the last traces of sunlight across the darkening sky. With each passing moment the dusk was fading to black, yet the running man charges ahead, as though he were trying to catch the sun before it fell into oblivion.
Suddenly, ahead on the beaten path, a rock materialized from the approaching darkness, directly in the man’s path. It was simple, featureless, and most likely composed of the granite from the hills surrounding the forest. The running man neither saw not wanted to see the oncoming obstruction. His blind obedience of his impulses forbade analysis of the situation. His chest screamed at the deafened ears of his brain as closer and closer the rock came.
When the running man tripped, he left the ground and flew. His heart, old and despicable behind his ribs, went critical just before the man made contact with the hard-packed, dust-covered earth. There were no sounds to be heard, except the grunting exhale of breath leaving the man’s lungs, the scarpe of flesh matter against ground matter, and the whisper of the settling dust as the man’s eyes closed, his shoulders sank, and his heart stopped. As the final glimmer of sunlight exploded across the cloud-littered skies, the orchestra of insects began their sunset crescendo, chanting a lullabye to the man now lying lifeless in the dust of the forgotten forest path.
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