She crouched in the dark corner,
leaning against the cave wall. Hand in front of her mouth, she tried to keep
her breathing slow and silent. She must have been keeping all of the screaming
inside her head, because none of them came closer.
Exhaustion drove her to the cave.
Night fell, and she was cold and hungry, stumbling on feet too bruised to carry
her any longer. She stood outside for long moments, listening for any sound of
life inside. Creeping in step by wary step, she had feared an attack at any
moment, until she crept all the way to the far wall. The cave was dark and
empty and, if not warm, dry and out of the bone-chilling wind. She hadn’t meant
to fall asleep, only rest for a little while and then continue on her way.
She woke to the sounds of teeth
crunching bones. Gripped in terror, she listened in the dark, pressing against
the wall and trying to place the sounds around the cave. One to her right,
another in front, another to the left. At least three. Maybe more. No light
filtered in, and she could not tell what kind of animal, monster, had joined
her in the dark shelter. Nor what they feasted on. Teeth scraped on bone,
crunched down. Bones dropped to the floor, claws scrabbled to hold them again.
Over time, she slowly moved from
lying down to sitting against the wall, hoping nothing would brush against her,
discover her. She closed her eyes, no difference in her sight, and prayed to
every god and goddess she had ever heard mentioned in the village inn. If she survived
the night, she would visit every temple, every roadside altar she ever saw, and
give thanks.
The gnawing sounds went on and
on. Teeth and claws, heavy bodies sliding against the stone. The smell of blood
and viscera filled the darkness, and she fought the urge to vomit. She pressed
her hand against her mouth and bit her fingers to keep from making any noise.
How could she fall asleep again?
She woke with her cheek on the cold stone floor. She held herself still and
slowly opened her eyes. Dim light filtered in. She was alone. Bones and
discarded body parts littered the cave, but nothing living remained. She sat up
slowly, fearing hidden danger.
Moving slowly, silently as she
could, through the bloody remains, she crept to the cave entrance, peered
outside, and waited for a long time. No movement, no sound, not even birds or
little animals rustling around in the early morning light.
She crept out of the cave,
leaving bloody footprints in her wake. Back to the stream that had led her so
far away from home, she knelt to drink, then stood. Considering her direction,
her fate, for a long moment, she finally turned away from home and continued
along the stream’s mossy bank. Watching her feet on the slippery rocks, she saw
no shadows, no movement behind her.
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Dogs in house:
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Houdini, Brindle, Bacon
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Time writing:
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~15 minutes
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May word
count:
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1,728
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Prompt: Chewing on the Bones
ReplyDeleteKarl swept the carved bone counters from his desk and lay his head down. It was counter-productive: he would have to pick those up again. But for the moment, he closed his eyes and searched for calm.
If he had known how badly his father was running the business into the ground, he would have...probably done nothing. The irresponsible, fun-loving boy--and he could not call himself anything other than that, for all that he was in his twenties--had not cared where the money that paid for his leisure came from.
But his father and elder brother had been so responsible. How could they let this happen? _Why_ had they let this happen? It made no sense. And despite searching through the records for the last three weeks since word of the ship wreck, he could not find where all those funds had gone.
_I'm sorry, Papa, I was not the son you expected me to be_. But it was too late. Words never to be said; his father beyond reach now. The grief had not really come on full yet, for he still believed--just a little-- that it could not be real. Papa and Arthur had been gone for months on their trading mission, and not expected home for months more. It was only scrawled words on parchment that let him know they were gone.
And the hounding of the creditors wanting what was due from a dead man's estate. Karl could have given up, vanished like the wastrel son he was, to leave the vultures to pick over what was left. It was clear by now that handling the estate would leave him no better off than simply stealing his own horse and making a new life somewhere else. But somehow he now felt the need to redeem himself. Papa would never know--unless it wasn't true, unless they came back.
He leaned over and picked up the counters. One had rolled far under the desk, and he kneeled to go after it. As he patted forward in the dark underside, his hand touched a raised metal bar--a handle. He lifted it.
Ugh! Really like pulling teeth tonight. Well, writing when it doesn't flow is probably even more important than when it does. Got to get a little more rested!
DeleteI like it! Nice characterization and back story, and a great hook at the end!
ReplyDeleteI know what you mean about the struggle, and I agree that's probably the most important time to write! I'm so glad you're keeping me company on this adventure!