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An old story of mine. Those who have seen my posts and know my views around Fiction will know how important it is to me. Writing fiction is nothing new to me, it is something I have been doing for as long as my memory serves me and it is something I - one day - hope to make a career of in the Film Production industry.
But that is enough about me

I hope you find some enjoyment from this bit of work. It isn't much but it was a wee short story I found while riffling through my old documents. Leave any thoughts, whatever you want. This is an open discussion section

May the force be with you always,
~ Ste'ar

Home

The thick, heavy breath drifted up into his face with each greedy lungful he took. His sore feet stomped down on the dead, crumbling undergrowth. His lungs were blazing and the glaring auburn sunlight stung his eyes like venom stung a wound. His shackled pair of hands found the rough bark of an old, moss covered tree trunk as he propped his aching body up against this tall, majestic tower. The overpowering, pungent smell of fresh pine lingered in his nostrils and clung to the back of his throat. His eyes began to water in the bitter air, skin stiff from the biting cold. He peeked over his shoulder, glancing back into the seemingly endless void of this menacing pine forest. Glancing around – breathing still heavy, nerves shattered, only to find no comfort in this maze of gigantic trees, standing sentry. His hands clasped round a segment of this majestic tree's trunk, resin trickling out a fresh gash in this old tree – down across his tense backhand. He darted his vision back through this maze of trees again, looking for any sign of movement.
He found none.
He made use of his shackled hands as one giant hand and shoved his unusually heavy body away from the tree, stumbling into a run. The sun was jutting down across the horizon, the blinding auburn rays at dusk stealing away some of his vision, the wind violently swaying the impossibly massive pine trees around him. As he ran, his nearly naked feet crushed the remainder of the dead foliage as frighteningly cold beads of sweat began to seep down his forehead, onto his cheek to finally roll off the bottom of his chin. This only made the biting cold ever more fierce, making his sweat feel like cold, dead blood that belonged to a corpse. His vision began to blur, tears leaking from the sides of his eyes as the burning sensation seemed to spread from his lungs across his chest, like a fire would spread through a vulnerable forest. Inevitably the point came in which he could sustain his dodging of trees no longer and the point came in which he could not muster enough strength to even run any longer. He simply gave up, falling to his knees as they drove down into the soft yet spiky undergrowth. His body slumped down in sync; his legs giving in to the strain. He allowed his head to tilt to face the murky ground, sweat pouring from his body, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose, his eyes closed as if in peace. His now heavy, shackled hands draped down to meet the undergrowth parallel to his swollen knees. He knelt there – deadly still - in this impossible, endless forest as the sun cast its final hazy rays of precious light down across this gloomy, twilight forest; marking the beginning of his end. His jumpsuit was torn and ragged – the branches had sliced through them as he ran, like a claw of a vicious animal would slice through flesh. His whole body felt weak, vulnerable, spent – his wounds only making the situation worse. He felt defeated.
But his head was the worst.
It thumped consistently, as if it were a tribal drum being beaten to its demise at some exotic, primitive ceremony. It throbbed and pulsated confusion throughout his very mind. His concentration diminished, his sense of direction now non-existent. He knew in his heart that he needed to keep going, there was no other alternative. His body – it seemed – had other ideas. What else could he do but continue? He had come all this way, overcome the most difficult of obstacles in this path yet was he destined to be defeated by the one aspect he never took into consideration? He flickered his watery eyes open, his mouth dropping down as he gaped up through a gap in the canopy to the indigo sky beyond. His auburn glow of hope of one horizon, his grim shadows of certain death on the other. His life – it seemed – was postponed in the middle here; the nice, calm, pleasant aura of the middle. A peaceful aura of twilight. For a moment, he sat and simply enjoyed this final peace. He extended his arms out after a short period of time, the shackles weighing them down like an anchor would weigh its ship. With a sudden loss of strength he began to feel his body giving into the encroaching darkness, stalking him like he was its prey. He could feel death creeping up on him from the shadows of night, these tall mighty sentries now horrific, evil totems. As his body slumped, his arms, then his head took it in turn to follow suit as he hit the ground.
His head thumped off the soft, yet spiky undergrowth of rotten, decaying pine needles – the stench of the discarded remains washing over him and his senses. This stench flushed out the pleasant scent of pine lingering in his nostrils and dragged away the scent clinging to the back of his throat – only to replace it with a foul, gut churning stench of rot. He felt as if he could spill his stomach, all over the dead foliage – if his stomach contained anything worth spilling. His once stiff limbs now seized up as if they were frozen solid as he let his eyelids slide shut. Then... Just darkness.

Finally, he could hear a growl. It had come from around him, somewhere. He knew he was alive, the sound was too real. It was not until his pain kicked in that he was certain he still lived. The pain all hit him at once, like a sledgehammer slamming a brick wall. The pain was in his legs and his overweight, impossibly heavy – still shackled – arms. His head was suffering from this intense, indescribable throbbing – a lot worse than before. His skin felt as cold as that of a corpse, the wind chilling it more so. All he could see was darkness. He slowly – seemingly with every morsel of strength he possessed – pried his eyelids apart to meet a menacingly dark haze of the pine forest at night. His throat and mouth were dry but unusually, ice cold. So his feeling of them was little to none. He must have blacked out, he wanted and needed to keep moving but he knew the reality of the situation as it hit home hard. He was never standing up again. He didn't want to believe this was the end, after the months of planning, plotting and the final execution of the perfect escape. As he gazed out into the forest, the realisation hit him about the one factor he did not even think about considering. This one factor, his downfall and mankind's oldest enemy. As the evil, yellow eyes glared back at him from the darkness with their merciless sheen – only one thought could fill his moribund mind...
The thought of Home.

By: Me ( never give out my real name online, nothing personal )

As his body slumped, his arms, then his head took it in turn to follow suit as he hit the ground.
His head thumped off the soft, yet spiky undergrowth of rotten, decaying pine needles – the stench of the discarded remains washing over him and his senses. This stench flushed out the pleasant scent of pine lingering in his nostrils and dragged away the scent clinging to the back of his throat – only to replace it with a foul, gut churning stench of rot. He felt as if he could spill his stomach, all over the dead foliage – if his stomach contained anything worth spilling.