He ran through the field, something was chasing him but it was dark so he couldn’t tell.
Cowan
The fog is dusted in soft pinks and yellows, the sun not quite risen above the trees.
He shudders, dew drops bursting beneath him, the small dam bursts staining his jeans, soaking through the denim, chilling his skin.
He fights the urge to shiver, bites his tongue to hide his gasp.
The cows are quiet around him, still, silent.
The stake leaves splinters in his palm, and it takes effort to ensure that his breaths don’t join the mist hovering over the field.
He can’t risk getting caught.
He can’t risk being seen.
Another cloud passes over the rising sun, and his stomach sinks again, his target drifting closer.
He tenses, braces himself for the fight ahead, prays the dawn won’t be much longer.
The field beckons, actual plants not manicured grass to look like a plastic Barbie lawn, flowers tangled around each other, the froth of Queen Anne’s Lace mixed with the melting suns of Black-Eyed Susans.
The football field has properly trimmed grass. Flat and freshly made. Nothing exciting was going on.
And the next thing I know, was that I was laying on the ground, palms behind my head. The sun is bright, I know. But I watched the clouds passed by slowly.
running wild and free through a poppy field until i remember that poppies are associated with death. mass death. wars. atrocities. but they’re beautiful. should i be happy that they’re beautiful? should I be sad that we have come to see them represent death? isn’t death beautiful too? but in what context?
He ran through the field, something was chasing him but it was dark so he couldn’t tell.
The fog is dusted in soft pinks and yellows, the sun not quite risen above the trees.
He shudders, dew drops bursting beneath him, the small dam bursts staining his jeans, soaking through the denim, chilling his skin.
He fights the urge to shiver, bites his tongue to hide his gasp.
The cows are quiet around him, still, silent.
The stake leaves splinters in his palm, and it takes effort to ensure that his breaths don’t join the mist hovering over the field.
He can’t risk getting caught.
He can’t risk being seen.
Another cloud passes over the rising sun, and his stomach sinks again, his target drifting closer.
He tenses, braces himself for the fight ahead, prays the dawn won’t be much longer.
The field beckons, actual plants not manicured grass to look like a plastic Barbie lawn, flowers tangled around each other, the froth of Queen Anne’s Lace mixed with the melting suns of Black-Eyed Susans.
The football field has properly trimmed grass. Flat and freshly made. Nothing exciting was going on.
And the next thing I know, was that I was laying on the ground, palms behind my head. The sun is bright, I know. But I watched the clouds passed by slowly.
And it felt great.
running wild and free through a poppy field until i remember that poppies are associated with death. mass death. wars. atrocities. but they’re beautiful. should i be happy that they’re beautiful? should I be sad that we have come to see them represent death? isn’t death beautiful too? but in what context?