Foxhole

tempestas

A storm is brewing.

The desert expands limitless in every direction, hissing in the wind that stirs, and the sky is vaster and richer than anyone could think possible, swirling darkness that promises a show like no other. In the distance, thunder, so deep it alters the rhythm of your heart.

You are in the eye of the storm. The gales tug at your clothing like invisible hands, the dull roar filling your ears and reverberating in your stomach. It presses into all sides, a tremendous pressure that immobilizes you from breaching the eye and moving (keep going keep going keep going) forward and as you lean into nature's maw, it leans back. Your vision is stunted by the dull wall of sand and grit and (palms outstretched) and if you could just see beyond, see daylight one last time--

And lightning strikes. You can feel your entire being shudder from the impact, turned brittle by an inhuman force. It strikes again, and again and again and- you can hear something- and it splits the storm in two and- is that singing? No, not singing. A muffled chorus of voices, a harmony of flat pitch and sharp annunciation, the spine of an unforgiving desert flora that blooms words instead of pain or petal. They just won't stop chanting.

Why are you here? (My heart is in anguish within me, and the terrors of death have fallen upon me) You can feel the panic bubbling, rising (Fear and trembling come upon me) and your mind is eating itself whole (And horror has overwhelmed me). Why are you here? You do not want to be here, you yearn to sprint across the burnt red sand and be (I said, "Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest) free.

Why can't you leave? You don't recall ever sticking to one location (Behold, I would wander far away,) and you certainly don't recall reason to stay in one, either (I would lodge in the wilderness. Selah). Who are you, again? You can't seem to grasp (I would hasten to my place of refuge) the (From the stormy wind and tempest)

concept.

The cacophony of voices reaches a crescendo, and something moves beyond the yellowish barrier. The shadow forms first, a dark shape with no conceivable characteristic, then splits into two shapes, then five. A thumb and a forefinger. The hand does not struggle to emerge through the cascading mass of rampant air; it glides forward slowly and precisely as if it were a knife through honey. Your vision begins to fold around the edges, but you can just make out this hand, splayed outwards toward your shivering form.

(Who are you?)

Without any second thought, you take a desperate lunge and grasp it. And as quickly as it came, the storm disappears, winks away, along with the voices, the wind, and the hand. An absolute nothing unfurls around you, and there is nothing to hold onto. You can feel your grip on reality starting to loosen, and you're falling, falling down into nothing and everything and you will never be anything more than a spec in a lifeless universe and and and

and

then

you

wake

up

"CHRIST!"

You rub your forehead, the sore spot where you struck your head against the low-hanging wooden beam blossoming into a nasty purple bruise. Having quite literally flung yourself out of a makeshift bed (straw and an empty barley sack was not a commoner's definition of fine-dining, but you made do), you found no allure of sleep returning any time soon. The floorboards are dark blue under the fading night, and you can taste the stillness of the air as it waits for the living creatures of Nowhere to wake. May as well have an early start- it was time, you'd decided, to cut stick and beat the trail.

You pack up your few belongings, and, tightening your belt and giving the holster a pat, leave the abandoned barn. You will never see this barn again.

Beyond the desert horizon, the sun begins to rise.

*will smith voice* it's rewrite time

- bo :)