Cirno
Sleepwalking Fairy
Aiming for poetic economy. Serious critique welcome. Considering starting drabble blog, so be brutal.
81-Word Draft in First-Person
----
The trail has climbed over rough boulders, slid down slick ones, wended its way through wood, and crossed muddy rivulets by felled tree. We're half-way there.
He worries, but I've done it one-handed before.
I take a step on a loamy patch and my ankle goes. I sink down.
He waits. Hands me water. "You should leave it," he says.
"Yeah. Someone else will carry it out." I take my father's hand.
I set the plastic coffee cup in a high crevice.
136-Word Draft in Second-Person
----
There's Swallowtails and dragonflies, frogs and geckos. An empty plastic cup under the bushes.
You take it, part righteousness, part play.
He worries. You toss it between your hands to climb over rough boulders, slide down slick ones, wend your way through wood, and cross muddy rivulets by felled tree. You're half-way there.
You take a step on a loamy patch and your ankle goes. You sink down, your vision threatening to go static white. Your guts threaten to spill everything. That primal flight response. You breathe.
He waits five-hundred heartbeats. Hands you water. "You should leave it," he says.
"Yeah." Words come before thought. "Someone else will carry it out." You take your father's hand, though yours is grimy with sand and sweat. He holds tight.
An empty plastic cup sits in a high crevice.
81-Word Draft in First-Person
----
The trail has climbed over rough boulders, slid down slick ones, wended its way through wood, and crossed muddy rivulets by felled tree. We're half-way there.
He worries, but I've done it one-handed before.
I take a step on a loamy patch and my ankle goes. I sink down.
He waits. Hands me water. "You should leave it," he says.
"Yeah. Someone else will carry it out." I take my father's hand.
I set the plastic coffee cup in a high crevice.
136-Word Draft in Second-Person
----
There's Swallowtails and dragonflies, frogs and geckos. An empty plastic cup under the bushes.
You take it, part righteousness, part play.
He worries. You toss it between your hands to climb over rough boulders, slide down slick ones, wend your way through wood, and cross muddy rivulets by felled tree. You're half-way there.
You take a step on a loamy patch and your ankle goes. You sink down, your vision threatening to go static white. Your guts threaten to spill everything. That primal flight response. You breathe.
He waits five-hundred heartbeats. Hands you water. "You should leave it," he says.
"Yeah." Words come before thought. "Someone else will carry it out." You take your father's hand, though yours is grimy with sand and sweat. He holds tight.
An empty plastic cup sits in a high crevice.
