the meadow was always pleasant in the day time, but at night, the dark ravine overshadowed any feelings of happiness and peace. it was like she was running in cycles, cold sweat falling over her brow as she went through the routine of running for her life. any hope to apply her surviving skills to end the threat of the myth was false. to cleanse the essence of evil within herself, to stop the beating rhythm of dread that was her life, was to rely on hope… which was too great a risk to take. the leather strap, which held her silver-handled dagger given to her by her father, was now tightening around her ankle, making her stumble through the woods. she had to shove branches out of her way, or risking losing an eye. she meant to stay behind, she really did, but she was taught to survive--and she would. she couldn’t deny her true calling. her light green leafy skin acted like a sponge now, soaking up the excess water due to all the running. the thread of her long, brown hair was becoming undone as she shook her head, to reply to her calling was a great self-sacrifice. this was the way of faeries… to soak up the world around them and never stop. the haunting, never-ending rhyme of her life.
the routine of running
October 7, 2010