Lost

The wind blew, whipping my hair around my face, smacking my cheeks with a painful sting. Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to overflow. I was lost, alone, and cold. On either side of me stretched a bare, desolate, gray landscape. The thin clothes I wore were nothing compared to the howling, bone chilling winds. They cut through the supple cloth like a knife, gouging freezing cuts across my nerves. I tried to call out, but no noise came. Any light that may have seeped between the clouds refused to show it's face. All around was the freezing, empty gray. Unable to remain standing, I fell to my knees. I tried to cry out as the sand dug into the ragged, bloody flesh in my palms, but my voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. The tears overflowed and coated my cheeks in sheets, dripping down my neck and onto my chest. I couldn't go on. So I closed my eyes and waited.
           But no one came.

(I once again had no acces to colors... I need a new computer program...)

Battlegrounds

            He was evil. There was simply no other possible term to describe him.

            Hefting my weapon of choice, I sidled into his lair, eyes wide and nervous. I was all too aware of his putrid, burning gaze on my tender flesh.

            And when he struck, I was ready. With an almighty scream, the two of us crashed together—my heart against my throat, and the rooster’s face against my garbage can lid.

I Will Face My Fears

Today, I will face my fears. I will walk into that classroom, sit beside him, and swallow the butterflies fluttering from my heavy tongue. Mayhap we’ll admit ourselves and our thoughts to one another, or perhaps we won’t. Perhaps we’ll simply sit in compatible silence until he turns too awkwardly, hits my foot, and brings me to a blush. But be with him I will, whether it be as friends or companions, and happy I will be.

            And then, I’ll return home with a smile crooked on my face and my nerves complacent in my belly. And I will grow wings and fly far away, just like a bird on a summer horizon. 

Set three goals for yourself today.
The words, etched in chalk, backed with green, blared in my face. my mind was blank.
Goals? who cares about my goals other then me?
And my goals are personal. Of coarse, there is the easy way out, a simple "I'm going jog three miles, I'm going to paint my room," you know, simple, boring, everyday goals. But if I delve a little deeper, and see my actual goals for the day, I don't really want to tell people.
Some of them involve matters that I have to deal with psychologically.
Some of them have to do with my relationships with other people.
That's just not something I want to share right-out to a room full of people.
Granted, I have known them all for a large amount of time, and a few of them are my trusted secret keepers.
But do I really want EVERYBODY to know my private goals? Some of them seem ridiculous, petty, stupid, even.
So i think I'll just keep them to myself.

(assignment for the Great Galloway)
(side note: i could not access the colors to spiff up my fonts. I am deeply sorry if this causes any physical, emotional, or physiological trauma in any way. :)

[Rough Draft]

Chapter 2

Evelyn Taylor and Fuego McCann,

Day  47

            “What the fuck is that?” Cloudy eyes suspicious, Fuego shifted uncomfortably, running a tentative hand along the handle of my new toy.

            “It’s a whip, silly!” I crowed, playfully snaking its length. The tip parted the dirt smoothly, embracing the dead earth like a predator. “It makes noise, turns people on, and removes heads from shoulders.” With a broad grin, I pulled my eyes coyly to Fuego’s.

            Grimacing, Fuego shook his angular head, lips parted in a half disgusted smile. Turning on his heel, he began his way down the street.

            “What good is a whip on a zombie?” He called, spitting in the dust as he went. I passed the glob gingerly, scrunching my face as I went. Spots of color danced on my cheeks as I did so, burying cinnamon freckles around a crimson layer of sunburns nearly as vivid as my hair. Fuego had taken me here months ago, just to see the high desert. We’d never had the chance to come back. Gingerly ignoring the heinous color, I skipped to catch up to my instructor, wry smile ready on my parched lips.

            “All that blood has to go somewhere, my dear,” I replied, tipping it off with a raucous wink. With a sigh he stepped forward again, flashing me a rare, brief smile for a moment.      

            “Only you, Evelyn.”

            “I try!” I called back with a laugh. Falling in beside him, I snaked the whip experimentally, reveling as the sleek kangaroo hide slid beside us. As curiously proud as a two year old with a new toy, I flicked it experimentally, long stretch of oiled leather racing ahead of us.

            “Whatever. Just until this shit is all cleared up, don’t crack that thi-” Fuego began irritably. Before he could finish, a sound unrolled around us, gunshot-like clap rattling through the stifling musty air. The whip danced back wildly, snapping me harshly across a single high cheekbone. My startled yelp coincided with the fading tumult of sound nearly simultaneously. The handle nearly dropped from my hand in surprise before I caught it again, years of having random objects thrown at me sinking in.

            For a full moment the two of us just stood there, breaths coming in pants in the streaming Arizona sun. Then, Fuego’s hand twitching into mine, he began to run. Leather bound boots slapped the ground in our wake, seaming to echo throughout the broad empty streets. Clay houses watched us disapprovingly as we fled. Two pairs of eyes, mine wild orange, his as green and as gray as the moorlands of old, scraped the doorframes for predators.

When the attack came, we were as swift as birds. The first was a crawler, just pulling his pathetic naked body across the ground. A single sandal remained on his ravished toes, thongs having been pulled directly into the muscle of his foot. A low sound preceded his presence, a befuddled snarl building through his clogged throat.
           Like a shot we were off, flying around his grasping, decrepit hands. Others began to make their selves known, rotting bodies dripping out of houses, alleyways, and garages alike. Together, we skirted a pool in our way where two of the reanimated bastards were scrabbling their way out, leaving streaks of blood across its aqua walls.

Snarling under his breath, Fuego dove around a corner, shooting hastily up a cement block wall. Balancing near-daintily on his perch, he pressed his body flat on the hot stone and grasped roughly for my hand once more. Shaking a bit, I took a step back, and began to run. Sandstone bit into my fingertips, drawing blood and cracking nails. With a hard, gritty-sounding thud, my knees met the rough wall and promptly began to leak. But at that moment, there was only Fuego and the determined desperation in his eyes. With a mountainous heave, he pulled my body up to meet his, nearly losing his balance in the process.     

And after a quick if thorough visual analysis, we were off again, our feet jiving along the narrow stretch. Below our fleet dance, hands grasped. It was enough to have made me fall into hysterics in a previous life. The befuddled gaping mouths, the drooping, grasping rank hands, and our dancing, flying, dirty little feet.

Leaping in a final, twisted pirouette, we flung ourselves to a clay roof, whip, possessions, and wayward supplies trailing. With a gasp, the two of us clattered to the hot roof, mouths open and eyes dilated. Gingerly, we patted each other down, ripping backpacks from the other’s shoulders and frantically checking our location for lurking watchers. Immediately, I dove to the roof’s edge, flopping down on my belly for stabilization. Below, wafts of decomposition and wailing symphonies rose up to met my waiting senses. With a grimace, I pulled myself back.

“I think they’re staying,” I sighed, crawling back. Fuego nodded and resumed his search, spreading out the last of our wares on the baking tiles. Four almost-empty canteens, a bedroll, two spare woolen blankets, one depleting first aid kit, a serrated hunting blade, three water purifiers, seven snack bars, a war-worn violin, and the last bottle of Fuego’s medication stared woodenly back at us.  After a silent moment, he spoke.

“Doesn’t look any better to me,” He commented dryly. “Do you see any magical new arrivals?”

“Nope,” I replied, hiding a sick grin. Our sacks, three in total, sat limply beside the meager stack in silence. After a moment, we glanced up at each other, his own lips spreading wearily in response to my smile.

“Then let us feast!” Fuego laughed. With sardonic grins, we toasted our canteens to one another, spread our blankets, and got ourselves comfortable. Gingerly, I gently pulled the tarnished violin to my lap, embracing it like an old friend. Then, after receiving the usual encouraging nod from Fuego, I began to play.

As custom, my dear violin was working hard, her strings humming with effort. As custom, the notes were as lively, as vivacious as they could be. The first song was essential to our nights, reflecting our joy in living another day. Later would welcome the melancholy ones, in honor of the ones we lost. And as per custom, the gnashing and groaning of undead throats were whistled away.    

The bullwhip sat heavy at my side for a moment, and then seemed to drift away as well. This was why I played. This, for Dmitri, and for old time’s sake. The crack of a bullwhip in an open road is a death wish. Being able to play the fiddler’s songs in a safe place, no matter how exposed, is a blessing. One we shall continue to enjoy, I hope. The notes warbled around us until I could play no longer. When that time came, I laid down my bow, placed the violin tenderly back in it’s cracked leather case, melted into my gratefully companion, and drifted off to sleep.