Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Project Inspiration Time

I saw this image on Pinterest (love that site) under Laini Taylor's board and fell in love with it. It's just so darn creepy. I imagine she's been stuck under an icey lake for centuries, and some people finally stumble across her. So. Here's a little glimpse at this chick:

It’s like floating in a bed of needles. There’s no air to push through my lungs, no sound to force through my mouth, no room even to close my eyes. I’m buried head to toe in water. Frozen. Permanently.

I forget how long it’s been, but I know it has been years. Many years.

Or maybe it’s only been seconds, and the panic has made it seem endless. I know I will never escape this prison; I will never see my family again. I will never know the warmth of the sun, or the touch of dewy green grass, or the sticky, sugar smell of cotton candy. Ever. Again.

Pain is my only companion, and he’s a constant one. He caresses me with insistent fingers, forcing me to bend to his will. Screams push themselves through my chest over and over, though even I can’t hear them.


Pressure. It pounds against the inside of my mind, pushing back against the ice like an explosion. My ears are filled with thick knives, and my hot blood throbbing.

I know it will never end. It will never stop.


A crack. Somewhere deep within the unused folds of my mind, it happens: a crevice appears. It crackles like broken glass; shatters. I am losing it.

Breath. It careens into my body in a sharp blast of heat and cold. I can’t stand it. I try to cough it up.

Fresh air folds itself like a lost lover around the contours of my face. This is a dream.
I close my eyes, and open them again. Above me I see trees and a pink dawn sky.

I see.

Now I see a face. A girl. She looks my age – my physical age.

“Holy crap,” she says, and yanks someone’s arm. “It’s a girl.”

A girl. They are talking about me.

A boy’s face appears, drawn with horror. “I’m not sure it’s a girl. It looks like a skeleton.”
“It’s a girl, look at the hair!” She bends down and touches my cheek with a gloved hand. Nylon scratches painfully against my skin. I try to move away, but I can’t. I blink.

She screams.

“Brett!” she screeches, falling backward. “She’s alive!”

“That’s impossible.”

I look back up at the sky; the blue. Bright, sapphire, sparkling blue.


I am alive.

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