Ocelot IIX
High ho, Sheffield Wednesday!
Level: 109
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Joined: 15 Feb 2004
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 Posted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 3:35 pm Post subject: The Field |
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Ta Dar! Comments Please.
Emerging from the dark, a field of brash, vivid colours bursts out. The subdued greens in shadows contrast with the highlighted stripes of sun. He advances through the field, the bold yellows conjuring up pseudo-gold. The yellow bushes rustle and break before him as he glides through, the green limbs sliding over his legs. The colours continue downhill, the details, merging into one continuous hue, interposed with bold strokes of light and shade. In the distance, the land rises up again, darker; patches of brown and a shadowed forested green reaching towards the horizon.
He scuttles, cautiously, alert, towards the barbed hedge barrier, watching the idyll. In the cover of the hedgerow he temporarily relaxes, now scanning for his next objective, chancing upon a lone tree, standing upright in the countryside, extending its shield of leaves. He waits. Hears nothing. The tension gradually decreasing, he runs, crouching low to the tree, anticipating its safe umbrage. Now, he gambles a glance back, the imposing stonework of his nemesis fading from his emotions as it recedes. From the tress he can clearly see a detail that was invisible from the sea of green, a black-blue shimmering line, contorting its way along its convoluted path. On the far bank, a grey, regular slope, bobbing shapes faintly visible above its bulk. Relieved by the sight of his final target he drops down, and begins jogging towards it, the fear ebbing away, leaving his hope building into anticipation, into elation.
A whine behind him, gradually building into a howl, the steady note piercing the barely audible rustling. He stumbles; panic seizing him and grasping at his legs, tripping him from his rhythmic running. He ducks into the yellow and green shelter, barely daring to watch his half-thought fears unfolding, as if the act of observing was itself causing his collapse of hope. Shout break the siren’s peal, and the bastion bursts into vengeful life, its anger spilling forth, into a half-formed line of grey-clothed men. The fugitive begins to crawl, his scrabbling movements allowed only by hi desperation to flee overcoming paralysing fear. The line begins to slowly move, forcing down the crops, flattening them onto the ground, weapons raised, ready to destroy their prey. Unnatural calm and clarity descending, he manages to reach the edge of the field, no longer amongst the yellow-green rape, but instead rows of high, swaying corn. He clambers to his feet, and can yet see again the winding stream, with the safety that lies across it. He begins to run, all caution abandoned to the final hope of liberty.
Shots begin to whip out, the crack of rifles resounding from the field behind. Bullets sting the plants, but oblivious to all but his path he continues running, green branches flicking past, uneven ground keeping him unbalanced, unsure of his escape. Heavier, staccato retort begins, and finally, uncertainly, a spattering of return fire answers it, swelling into a rolling spread of bullets. Fugitive, his arms knocking, flailing at the obscuring plants, he breaks free of the final crop boundary, hurling himself through the water, even as it sprays up from the impact of bullets. Blindly, manically floundering, he collapses into the ditch, and into the arms of safety.
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