Fic: Forever Marching
title: Forever Marching
rating: PG-13
words: 341
warning: dystopic little drabble, original fic, unbeta'd.
summary: There's only one pace.
note: I'd be lying if I said I didn't know where this came from, but I honestly don't know why it hit me so hard. And it's original and not fanfic! *shrug* I guess inspiration is inspiration.
There's only one pace; it doesn't matter if you want to rush or if you want to stop, the crowd urges you steadily on. Whatever it is, the pace is not your own, and you have to concentrate to keep moving. After a while, you start stepping on things: a sweater, a broken hair clip, a shoe. So you continue to look down, watching your feet to make sure you don't step on anything, then, anyone.
You start to notice people on the ground: small children who've stumbled and fallen, or those who couldn't keep up. Some are injured and they try to hunch over and protect themselves. Your heart goes out to them, but you cannot stop.
You reach out to touch your lover's arm, looking for comfort, but the sleeve you feel under your fingers isn't one you recognize. You look up; your family has disappeared in the crowd. You scan the heads in front of you, searching for familiar hair colors, then you turn and look watch the faces behind you.
But walking backwards makes you stumble. You catch yourself by grabbing someone's shirt. He pushes your hands away. The latch on your bracelet comes undone and it falls to the floor. The bracelet your grandmother gave you. You try to stop and reach for it, but the crowd urges you on. Another thing lost to the constant push, like your vanished loved ones.
There's nothing to do but continue forward, buoyed by the press of bodies. At long, long last, the space widens and you push your way to the edge of the throng, where you fall sideways onto the ground. You roll away from the marching feet, slumped over in the mud. Your hands and knees are bloodied, your clothes ripped, your hair sticking in sweaty strands to your forehead and neck. Your body is bruised, and you're breathing hard.
Looking around, you realize there's nowhere to go but back into the mob. It's the only strand of murderous hope you have left to hold onto.
rating: PG-13
words: 341
warning: dystopic little drabble, original fic, unbeta'd.
summary: There's only one pace.
note: I'd be lying if I said I didn't know where this came from, but I honestly don't know why it hit me so hard. And it's original and not fanfic! *shrug* I guess inspiration is inspiration.
There's only one pace; it doesn't matter if you want to rush or if you want to stop, the crowd urges you steadily on. Whatever it is, the pace is not your own, and you have to concentrate to keep moving. After a while, you start stepping on things: a sweater, a broken hair clip, a shoe. So you continue to look down, watching your feet to make sure you don't step on anything, then, anyone.
You start to notice people on the ground: small children who've stumbled and fallen, or those who couldn't keep up. Some are injured and they try to hunch over and protect themselves. Your heart goes out to them, but you cannot stop.
You reach out to touch your lover's arm, looking for comfort, but the sleeve you feel under your fingers isn't one you recognize. You look up; your family has disappeared in the crowd. You scan the heads in front of you, searching for familiar hair colors, then you turn and look watch the faces behind you.
But walking backwards makes you stumble. You catch yourself by grabbing someone's shirt. He pushes your hands away. The latch on your bracelet comes undone and it falls to the floor. The bracelet your grandmother gave you. You try to stop and reach for it, but the crowd urges you on. Another thing lost to the constant push, like your vanished loved ones.
There's nothing to do but continue forward, buoyed by the press of bodies. At long, long last, the space widens and you push your way to the edge of the throng, where you fall sideways onto the ground. You roll away from the marching feet, slumped over in the mud. Your hands and knees are bloodied, your clothes ripped, your hair sticking in sweaty strands to your forehead and neck. Your body is bruised, and you're breathing hard.
Looking around, you realize there's nowhere to go but back into the mob. It's the only strand of murderous hope you have left to hold onto.