Post by Matt Ward on Apr 14, 2009 0:24:14 GMT -7
A cooling breeze blew over the stretching grasslands, swiftly bending blades of grass and flying toward a lone figure. Swirling up and around the lose pant legs and breaking formation to chill the exposed arms of the youth, the air swept over the form like water breaking on rock. Wind spray grazed his cheek as he walked and before another step could be taken, the chilled body stopped.
Matt gazed at the long stretch of dirt in front of him, his eyes raising with the breeze to watch the fading line of distance that showed him his path. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed the skin on his upper right arm. He looked pretty uncomfortable, his foot shifted but froze in place, a small grinding sound as the loose dirt under his foot piled to one side of his foot when he had started his movement.
Another long pause, then he began to walk.
Leaving home had sounded like the best thing in the world to him but now he wasn’t sure. Even now the cool sea breeze was washing over him, calling him back to his home. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the worn dirt trail, he felt as though he was being pulled in two directions. He tasted the air as he breathed, it had lost the familiar twist of fading salt that he had been used to all his life. So this wasn’t the ocean’s breath, he tasted only the powdery staleness of farm land.
Matt stood in the center of the dirt trail, his hair blowing over his face, the long strands shifting over his eyes. His leg tensed, his foot sliding along the ground as his mind flipped over the idea of turning back. Until all at once the tortured bliss was shattered by the sound of a grizzled man yelling.
“Hey! Get the Hell out of the road!”
Despite what his head had been ritually chanting since he closed the pealing red door of his house, Matt turned. He stepped to the side to allow the man passage, his eyes on the dirt path.
Mumbling to himself about the useless youth of the day, the old man rocked by on a creaking and shaky wagon, no doubt pulled by some distinct horse. Matt didn’t know, he found it hard to look anywhere but at three small pebbles that were spaced unevenly inside the area between his two shoes.
He waited for a long time, his mind mulling over as to why the one pebble was so oddly far away from the other two. Truth be told, he really didn’t want to be bringing up the rear to an angry old man and his creaky wagon.
Time passed by slowly and until Matt was absolutely sure that he didn’t hear any creaking, he looked up. His gaze crossed the seemingly endless expanse of small vegetation that made up the right side of the road. Behind him, Matt unconsciously felt the roughly cut wooden fence. His fingers moved over the splintered top that was about waist level to him. It was a thick horizontal pole that ran between two vertical ones, another horizontal pole was lower, at about knee height.
Walking three steps back onto the middle of the road and turning, Matt saw the smaller image of a twitching wagon in the distance. He glanced of to the side, gathered his thoughts, and stepped foreword once more.
Matt gazed at the long stretch of dirt in front of him, his eyes raising with the breeze to watch the fading line of distance that showed him his path. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed the skin on his upper right arm. He looked pretty uncomfortable, his foot shifted but froze in place, a small grinding sound as the loose dirt under his foot piled to one side of his foot when he had started his movement.
Another long pause, then he began to walk.
Leaving home had sounded like the best thing in the world to him but now he wasn’t sure. Even now the cool sea breeze was washing over him, calling him back to his home. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the worn dirt trail, he felt as though he was being pulled in two directions. He tasted the air as he breathed, it had lost the familiar twist of fading salt that he had been used to all his life. So this wasn’t the ocean’s breath, he tasted only the powdery staleness of farm land.
Matt stood in the center of the dirt trail, his hair blowing over his face, the long strands shifting over his eyes. His leg tensed, his foot sliding along the ground as his mind flipped over the idea of turning back. Until all at once the tortured bliss was shattered by the sound of a grizzled man yelling.
“Hey! Get the Hell out of the road!”
Despite what his head had been ritually chanting since he closed the pealing red door of his house, Matt turned. He stepped to the side to allow the man passage, his eyes on the dirt path.
Mumbling to himself about the useless youth of the day, the old man rocked by on a creaking and shaky wagon, no doubt pulled by some distinct horse. Matt didn’t know, he found it hard to look anywhere but at three small pebbles that were spaced unevenly inside the area between his two shoes.
He waited for a long time, his mind mulling over as to why the one pebble was so oddly far away from the other two. Truth be told, he really didn’t want to be bringing up the rear to an angry old man and his creaky wagon.
Time passed by slowly and until Matt was absolutely sure that he didn’t hear any creaking, he looked up. His gaze crossed the seemingly endless expanse of small vegetation that made up the right side of the road. Behind him, Matt unconsciously felt the roughly cut wooden fence. His fingers moved over the splintered top that was about waist level to him. It was a thick horizontal pole that ran between two vertical ones, another horizontal pole was lower, at about knee height.
Walking three steps back onto the middle of the road and turning, Matt saw the smaller image of a twitching wagon in the distance. He glanced of to the side, gathered his thoughts, and stepped foreword once more.
