Work in progress

Okay... Two weeks without a post is definitely too long.
I would give the usual spiel about being busy (which in part would be true) but I really don't want to make a habit of that being the opening to every post so I figure I'll just jump straight in.

So far (as I've said before) the only stuff that I have managed to get up is pre-written stuff – or stuff that I had finished and filed away before I started blogging.
Now there's nothing really wrong with putting up old stuff (I've written and read it but other people haven’t) but it seems like the blog would be better if I started to mix in some new stuff as well.
So without further ado (ado in this case being mostly padding and rambling) here is a story:

He runs. It has been hours since he left the city. Hours since he last had a chance to stop and catch breath. He knows he will have to soon.

It takes effort now to push past the man-high grass growing all around, and the dirt and muck fostering their roots seems to suck at every stride.

He keeps on.

A multitude of people move with him. Faceless. Nameless. Unknown and scared.
He can hear their heavy breathing mix with his own. Every so often one of them will drop off in exhaustion only to have their panting transform into calls of fear and frustration. He tries to ignore the screams that come as the men and dogs catch up with them. He keeps running knowing that he might be next.

Around him grass begins to thin, he finds himself running downwards as the soft earth gains water. He fights for his footing, falls, and plunges head first into a shallow pond and woody vegetation. He comes to his feet a second later, covered in mud and spiting away the brackish taste left in his mouth. The nearest embankment is steep and slippery but he climbs like a man possessed.

Here and there he hears yelps and grunts of frustration as a few others undergo the same experience.

He pays them no mind and begins to run again. Pushing his way past sickly tree branches and spindly green brushes of undergrowth. His muscles burn under their own weight. Low vines whip across his shoulders, thorns digging into clothes and flesh. He is panting now. After a few minutes he finds himself slowing. Stopping.

Something is different.

Others notice as well, voices whispering back and forth in confusion as they too slow to a stop. A low thud sounds out behind them. Then another. Another. Someone screams out a warning.

A dull whistle tears overhead. He throws himself to the ground as earth and sky explode. Chunks of white heat flicker out all directions, cutting through man and plant with indiscriminate violence.

A mist of dirt and blood floats down from the sky. He claws his way to his feet, checking himself, half deaf and gasping for air. Another impact falls behind and sprays water.

He stumbles onward. A lucky few go with him.

Vaguely he can hear those left behind, either screaming from their wounds or from dogs who rush in to finish them off. Or both. He wants to stop, to go back or be sick, to do anything but run, but his legs have a mind of their own.

Barely missing another stagnant pond he clambers up another embankment to find himself, finally, out of the muck of the mire. Out of the corner of his eye a cloud of ash chokes out the setting sun.

They are burning the city.

People sob silently until someone points towards the north-east. The waters of the Cambian River appear below through a gap in the trees. The riveted hulls of two Danmeer steamships move against the flow, turbine engines belching soot and churning water, they push through the normally hazardous currents with an arrogant ease.

One of the others, a woman, vaguely familiar, moves towards him questioningly. “So what do we do now? Are they still after us?” He looks at her dumbly, breathing hard. Her face is pale and smudged with ash. Her hair tangled and wet.

“Hey?” Her voice begins to shake. “Say Something!”

He looks to the others. They look away. She slaps him.

“Look at me! You brought us here! You brought us out” She shivers “...out of the city. Now tell us what the fuck we’re supposed to do!”

He comes back to his senses “Sorry...I don’t know...I don’t know any more than you do.” He is breathing normally now. “But I hope they’ll leave us alone now. Don’t see how we’re important. we're just a few who got out. Anyway they're going to be too busy looting and burning Rhys for them to care about anything else. At least for the moment.”

Another figure steps forward. A man. Large. He looks the others over, sweat beading on dark muscles. His voice is rich and low.

“But they have to come down the coast eventually. Need to eat. Need to be kept entertained. Not all of this is just swamp and grassland. There are farms and villages.”



Now as you can probably tell this is a work in progress, but as I originally started it as a way to toy with description and rhythm (and how this is affected by adding or omitting words that are not essentially necessary) it seemed worth putting up anyway - not withstanding the work I need to do on my paragraphing.

Still it seems that in the process of writing it I may have stumbled onto (at least in my head) an actual story and something which I would rather like to expand upon (and that potentially includes giving it a proper beginning) and upload the results.

That’s not to say that this will be the only new thing that I will be posting – I am working on one or two (or more like a half a dozen if I’m honest) other short stories which are intended to be more contained and I would like to put some of those up as well and on top of that there are still a number of pre-written stories left lying around as well.

But, for the moment, this should be enough.

Until next time

- I promise not to let it get to 2 weeks -

M