Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Murmur and Rustle.

[Seven Macaw's encounter with the Hero Twins, from a first-person perspective.]

He is lying stunned. Not moving, not breathing. He's not dead; he's just had his breath knocked out so hard his lungs can't start moving again.

He is staring up at the blue sky, blankly. The sky is so far away.

The leaves are drifting down on him.

There are only the soft murmurs and rustles of the forest, the rustle and murmur of leaves.

He is only a motionless object. But all of his senses are still working, both his human senses and his bird senses.

There are soft rustles in the grass.

The hunters are approaching. He senses them coming, with both his human senses and his bird senses. He smells their scents. They are very similar. Relatives. Brothers.

He still can't breathe. His lungs are so empty. He lies still, a wooden object.

All of his senses are warning him.

The hunters are coming closer. He sees feet and legs above him. One of the hunters pulls out a knife and lifts it to strike.

Suddenly, he springs up. Life and motion return to him. He is able to breathe again; he is whooping air desperately. He grabs the wrist of the man with the knife, holding it tightly, using the man's wrist to lever himself up from the ground.

The other hunter is approaching from the side. He throws out his foot and trips the man. The hunter goes rolling in the grass. Seven Macaw catches his breath, and laughs.

There are two of them, but he is not afraid.

He is immortal, after all.

The leaves are drifting down.

Authors Note: When I composed this scene, it was a cloudy morning. I looked out the window at my backyard; there was that eerie, hazy light, and the stillness, and the green of spring leaves.

This was one scene that I was able to compose in my head, word for word, and then type out verbatim at the computer.  There was that eerie feeling that I get sometimes when writing fiction, of actually being there.

It's 2012, folks, and weird shit is happening.

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