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Man this will be so hard to write... :(
As I write, the sun slowly travles across the
sky and shined on my legs and arms, warming
them. I can hear the ducks quaking softly in the
background.
I love, and have loved, writing poems about
nature, in nature, for a long time. I was kind
of a crummy writer when I was younger, but I
enjoyed it, and I got a lot better, escpecially,
*ahem* when I learned to, er, actually write
legibly.
Mother told me that my father, Ben, who died
when I was two, had loved writing also! Although
he didn't necessarily write just poems, writing
makes me feel closer to my father, somehow.
Suddenly there is a rustle to my left. I resist
the urge to snap my head in that direction, as
sudden movement would scare any animal that
might be there, but slowly turn my head as I
silently unhook my bow from a branch and take a
single arrow from my quiver, which is also
hanging from a short branch.
I put my pen and paper in a small nook I had dug
out with a kitchen knife in the thick trunk.
The bush rustles once more. I hold out my bow
and notch the arrow. Grasping the white
bowstring and feathers of my arrow in between my
thumb and forefinger, I draw them back until the
metal tip is almost touching the yew wood
longbow. I close one eye and look down the
shaft, aiming the tip at the foot of the bush.
C'mon, I think. One more rustle...
Finally, after what seems like hours, the bush
shakes once more and a grey cotton-tailed rabbit
hops out.
A flash of black and the rabbit falls over,
dead.
I swing my legs over my branch and retrieve the
rabbit. I carefully pull out the arrow, being
sure to not smear blood on the skin. as I
inspect the arrow to determine whether I can use
it or not, foolishly holding the arrow over the
body. A single drop of bright red blood falling
onto the grey fur. Groaning, I hurry the rabbit
over to the pond and clean the wound of blood.
When the rabbit's fur is absent of its bright
red blood, I trot back to my tree.
I store the rabbit in my game bag and am just
beginning to write again when I hear twigs
cracking, the rustling of legs untrained to
tread sliently like mine, and voices.
Quickly I grab my bow and quiver, swing them
over my back, stuff my paper in my already-full
quiver, and, with my game bag tucked under my
arm, I climb higher into the tree.
Like a monkey, I wrap my arms around a strong
branch and look down through the leaves to see
who in their right mind would be tramping
through the woods like this.
Two men, heavily weighed down with packs and
bags, full of who-knows-what, are talking in
loud, gruff, obnoxious voices.
THeir heads aren't looking where they should be
when walking through a dense, or even dangerous
unless armed, forest. THeir eyes are not
scanning the forest floor, searching for snakes,
fallen logs to trip them, or small ferocious
animals. Their eyes are not trained on the trees
sorrounding them, looking for grizzlies or a
deer they can shoot and supply for their family
for a week or sell for a price so high one could
buy twenty loaves of freashly bakes bread, which
is very rare. Nay; their eyes are trained on
large leaf-sized objects that are like lanterns
in the way they cast light on their faces. The
light constantly moves as if water shining on a
cliff face. I frown. The mens' mouths are not
moving, and yet I can hear strange noises coming
from their direction.
I see no weapons excpet a single dagger sheathed
in their leather belts.
Their clothes are brightly colored. Thier shirts
have blue, red, yellow and purple patterns on
them.
They stick out of the forest like a sore thumb,
I think.
City people.
Suddenly, my heart jumps and begins to pound. I
have left my pen on the ledge in the trunk! It
had been slowly making its way to the edge. I
clutch the tree tighter. If it falls, it will
land either on or near the two men!
Suddenly the wind gusts. THe trees sway, mine
with them. The pen slowly... slowly.. slowly...
rolls toward the edge...
Plunk. Plunkety-plunk. Thump.
"What was that?" The man with blond hair asked.
"I don't know," the other replied with a large
pink hat lumped on his head. "Why don't you find
out, Larry?" He challenges.
"Fine," Larry, the blond one, says.
He walks over to my pen, which has fallen a
little ways away from my tree, and picks it
up.
"Hmm." He looks up into my tree. Fortunately I
am shielded by leaves.
"What is it?" The pink hatted one asks.
"...a pen..." Larry murmurs.
"Let me see it," The pink hatted one orders,
holding out a yellow gloved hand.
Larry silently hands it to the pink man.
"It looks like some sort of ancient quill," he
says. "Put it in a baggie. We can sell it to a
musuem for thousands of dollars."
I stare down in horror and confusion. A musuem?
Dollars?
Then I remembered that Gilan had told me
that "dollars" was the form of money City people
used.
I wanted to stop the men from taking my pen -
quill.
Before I can think, I throw off my bow and
quiver and hurl myself at them, screaming.
It's my father's pen, after all!
OK THAT WAS HARD...SORRY IT WASN'T VERY GOOD :(
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Wow!
