Fleeing

I recently came across an article online extolling the benefits of writing frequently.  Specifically, the author mentioned writing at least 750 words a day as a way to increase creativity, as well as providing some general motivation.  Seeing as I've been a bit lax in writing recently (both this blog, and in general), I thought this was a interesting concept, and decided to jot down a short story.  It took a bit longer than I anticipated, but I don't think it turned out half bad (criticism welcome as always).  Hopefully, I will commit to 'paper' at some point a few of the other concepts I have floating in my head, but for now I present

"Fleeing"

He was running, fleeing.  His steps slowed by the blanket of snow that covered the forest floor.  The staccato crunch of compacted snow following each deep step.  Though his pace was rapid, his thoughts were faster: a frenzy a questions, instinct taking over, driving him, controlling him.  He maneuvered between trees, their trunks rushing by, their branches catching and pulling at him, trying to coax him to his end.  This would not do.  Although the muscles in his legs were burning, it was nothing compared to the heat in his chest.  His heart felt like it was on fire, each pulse sending blood through his body, some of which was staring to seep out of the mounting cuts and scratches caused by the underbrush and more persistent branches.  Each breathe was visible, hanging in the cool air, catching the light and glowing as a halo.  A though flashed into existence in his mind for an instant: "It would be such a peaceful morning if not for, if not for. . . ."  He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.  The pain in his tightening leg muscles was nothing compared to that.  His pace quickened and he leapt over a fallen tree crossing the forest path.  Hopefully the obstacle gave him some distance from his pursuers - right now even inches and fractions of a second were precious.

He landed, not pausing to see if his hopes were fulfilled; all that mattered now was survival.  The thought echoed in his head: "All that matters now is survival."  And survival  required him to be fast.  He use to always think he fairly fast for his size, but now in the face of death, he felt horribly sluggish.  Whether it was the thick snow, or growing lax in age, he knew he couldn't keep this pace forever, he needed evade his pursuers. Soon. The snow wasn't helping in this endeavor, his prints easily visible in the fresh snow, with crimson dots betraying his state.  He would have to find somewhere to hide.  He ducked as he passed under a branch coated in icicles, feeling them scrape across his head, his back, their icy diamond tips now more ruby-like in appearance.  The pain shooting through his body, but the thought again: "All that matters now is survival."  And then an addendum: "because they are no longer here."

"All that matters now is survival because they are no longer here" he realized, his eyes going wide.  The horrible revelation pushing its way to the surface, through years of muscle memory and eons of instinct.  His children, his family, gone.  Their lives cut short by the foul things chasing him, with their vicious eyes, their loud fury.  Had he been awake he would have been alerted by their stench, but instead he was violently torn from his dreams by screams of pain and howls of agony. He realized he was quickly outmatched and a though flared through his mind "survival".  Although it seemed like hours, it couldn't have been that long, minutes perhaps, if that, but his legs disagreed with that assessment.  Their protests were becoming louder, and then, they were instantly quieted in confusion.  He was in the air, footing upset by a hidden root in the snow, compounded by his mind's wandering.

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact as he collided with a tree.  The sickening crack of branches as well as a rib or two filled his ears.  He felt his back connect with the earth, the snow doing little to soften his fall. He had landed, but was still moving -tumbling, rolling down into a small ravine beside the tree.  As he reached the bottom he opened his eyes, and for a brief second was captivated by the early morning rays penetrating the forest canopy, sending golden streamers across the forest's floor.

The repose was brief.  He didn't have much time now, he could hear his pursuers now reaching the top of the ravine.  He would soon be joining his family.  It felt just, as if anyone deserved the punishment that befell them, it should be him.  After all, he knew of the warnings surrounding the area, and yet he convinced his family that it would be alright to spend the night, only one night while he prowled the clearing by forest, on the hunt for some to bring back.  Now here he was, prey himself.

"He's in the ditch," said one of the figures motioning to the battered body lying at the bottom, "I don't think he left us much of job."

"Good riddance, I hope that's the last of 'em," replied the other. "I'm getting fed up with  all the cattle we've been losing to these damn wolves," he continued raising his rifle, and lined up the shot.