The following is the first prose I've written for a few years now, it's just over five hundred words and is just a bit of a test run really. I'll either cut it down to five hundred or keep running with it, but we'll see.
The Rains:
It had been following
me for at least an hour now, of that I was sure. Beyond that, however, I knew
nothing. The sheeting rain hid everything more than about four yards away from
me as I slowly crept through the hedgerows, pausing occasionally to listen.
Nothing.
Or?
Could I hear
breathing?
No. Just my
imagination, whatever was out there was too careful to allow me to hear it. I
resumed by progress through the deluge, following the contours of the land, aiming
for the low rise I knew to be in the vicinity. I hoped that upon reaching
higher ground I might be able to see a little further, regain my bearings and,
perhaps, gain a knowledge of my hunter.
Besides the hissing of
the rain, the world is silent and still, no birds sing in the solitary, withered
trees that loom forth like gallows from the mist; no mice or rabbits rustling
in the grass at the base of the hedgerows that crisscross this patchwork land. This
unnatural silence and the tension of knowing I was constantly being watched by
unseen eyes was taking its toll on me; frustration rose to the fore as I tripped
over an exposed root and tumbled down into the gully left by an old, long-dry
dyke. Cursing, I pulled myself back up onto my feet, wincing a little as pain
flared in my lower back and knee, old injuries that refused to leave me be,
always returning in damp weather such as this, reminding me of my age.
The ground was growing
steeper now and, as I’d predicted, the curtain of rain was pulling back ever so
slightly, gifting me an extra few feet of visibility, though of my hunter there
was no sign. It was still there though, always just out of sight, out of
earshot, never revealing itself. Though it was certainly there, I could feel
it. Up ahead of me I could see the outline of a small building materialise from
out of the rain, perhaps it was a crofter’s hut, or shepherd’s cottage? No such luck, upon reaching the crest of the
hill, I discovered the building to be nought but a dilapidated ruin, clearly left
in disuse for many a year. Regardless, it had a roof and four walls and no
matter the gaps in the stones and gaping doorway, it was more than enough
shelter for me to gain a respite from the ceaseless rain. I sank to the ground,
my back leaning against the crumbling old wall facing the doorway. A voice
inside was screaming at me to continue, to forge a path through the endless
grey vista of rain and escape my pursuer, but I knew there was no point.
Whatever was hunting me had followed me effortlessly for miles, consistently
evading detection and never leaving any evidence as to its nature and now I was
spent. I doubt I could have escaped it in my youth. Fought it? Yes, of course,
I would willingly enter combat with anything that lived back then. Would I have
won? An interesting question, but I’m inclined to say yes, though that may be
the echoes of the foolish pride of youth that still live within me.