Book 3
Fantasy
From Writers Exchange
She
knew mud and cold and darkness and the ache in her head and the squirming
little boy in her arms. He took a deep breath and she instantly pressed her
hand over his mouth to smother another squall. He struggled for a little bit,
until she tightened her arms around him. Then he quieted. Just like all the
other times he had tried to protest their silence and stillness.
They
had to be quiet. They had to sit perfectly still here in the darkness. They had
to stay where they were and never move again.
“Why”
had no part in survival.
The
world consisted of the darkness and the smell of rotting wood around her, the
slimy feeling against her bare arms and the sharpness of splinters against her
back, the chill mud squishing between her bare toes -- and the smell of dirty
diaper coming from the little boy.
After
a time, the darkness grew grainy and turned to gray. She looked up into an
immense, reeking darkness. She looked straight forward and watched the darkness
shift into more gray with patterns running through it.
Gradually,
in time with the pulsing of growing ache in her head, the patterns turned into
trees. She sat inside a huge, rotted hollow tree, holding a blond, filthy
little boy in her arms.
She
wore shredded green flannel pajamas. The little boy wore a diaper and a
T-shirt. Both of them were streaked with mud and darker marks.
Her mind shied away from examining too closely to see what those darker marks were.
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