|| Asymmetry | Archive | April 3, 2005 |
Once-Himalayas becoming mere foothills (and ugly ones at that). Is it possible we'll have a spring this year?
Just as with physical exercise, there are mornings when I wake up and don't want to do this. But I think it's doing me good, so....
He woke in absolute darkness, thinking that he had been struck blind, but a panicked clutching revealed apparently undamaged eyes. His wounds burned with every movement, and a chain clanked harshly on rock. It was very cold. He felt out cautiously, instinctively. He was lying on bare rock. His own clothes were gone, and he had been dressed in some sort of loose singlet-like garment, which did nothing to ward the chill. Heavy manacles around each wrist were chained together, and then to the floor.
He stared at the alien darkness until he could no longer stand it, and closed his eyes, listening instead. The silence, too, was utter, and unexpected. Insofar as he had dared to imagine these circumstances, he thought it would be noisy here, but there was nothing. Only shock kept stark paralysis at bay.
Afraid to try but knowing that he must, he did his best to calm his panicked breath, to focus his thoughts, to look out beyond himself to whatever might be here. It was like being lost in a heavy fog; here, too, it seemed, he was blind, his magic chained as surely as his body. He tried again, concentrating fiercely, slashing out at the mist and then curling like an animal around the harsh pain that answered his efforts, choking on bile. Its passage left him weak.
With no possible purpose to it, he tried to rise; color bloomed in the darkness as his head struck rock. With an ever-growing sense of panic, for the first time then he compassed the extent of his prison. This was no room; long enough for a man's body, he could touch the walls to either side with his chained hands, the ceiling no more than four feet high. They had buried him alive.
Bent the rules a bit, as that took 20 minutes (so much time, so little produced!) and a little bit of editing. But the next chapter is on the way.
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Except where otherwise noted, all material on this site is © 2005 Rebecca J. Stevenson