Rustles in the Forest

A short about a man on the run.

They were searching for him. He knew they were. How could he not? The sound, the sight; a faint rustle in the brush, a flicker in his peripheral vision. Yes, it was all too clear that they were searching for the lonely, bedragged man skulking his way carefully though the forest. But they weren't going to find him. Not if he had anything to say about it.

    The faint, pale moonlight filtered though the arboreal canopy above, revealing the world in grays and silvers and blacks. Before him, the man could make out the murky silhouette of a mountain thrown up against the starry horizon. In his left ear was the muted rumble of a river splashing its way hurriedly through a jagged ravine. To the right was more tangled, pine-scented forest, stretching on to the edges of his imagination. And behind, oh, behind were his persuers. The flickers and the rustles.

    The man chanced a glance behind, and tripped over a fallen tree. With a silent curse, he scrabbled to his feet, heart beating a tremulous pace. He stood silent a moment, listening. He could hear them. A bare whisper of noise to the right. The man scampered forward, horrified by the crackle and crunch of dried twigs and leaves beneath his boots, but unable to stop or slow.

    There! Ahead and to the right, a flicker in the shadows! They knew where he was, and were even now flanking him, cutting off his escape. He broke into a dead run, careless of the noise; it didn't matter. Stealth had failed him, only speed could save him now. The flickers and the rustles were herding him, deviously boxing him in between themselves, the mountain, and the ravine.

    Slowly, bit by terrible bit, they edged him closer to the ravine. He knew, with utter certainty, that there would be no escape; they would catch him. They were close now, the flickers and rustles were a constant deluge of sensory stimuli around him.

    He stubbled with a ragged stride into the strip of clear space along the ravine. The thunder of the river arose like some ancient colossus to batter his senses with an invisible fist. He turned at the edge, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Ten feet away, the flickers and rustles congregated at the fringe of the trees. He edged back, feeling the brink of the precipice crumble slightly beneath his heels. Fear squirmed in his belly and tightened his throat.

    This was the end. Whatever happened though, he would not be caught. He turned and flung himself into open space. The feeble splash of his body drifted up to the silent, still forest.

Author's Note

Edited somewhat from the original, but still needs work, I reckon.

Reviews

[Onyx_Rayne]

I KNEW IT! HA! I had a feeling that there wasn't actually anyone chasing him... maybe in general, yes, because he was "on the run"...but not at that particular time.... Awesome write!

I felt the paranoia increase with each paragraph and each sight caught from his perepheral... each crunch of leave beneath imaginary feet.

This is what happens when we try to run from our problems.. We become paranoid that, around every corner, that problem is going to catch us...that paranoia leads to drastic actions.

I LOVED this one; The imagery, the pace .. everything.

Fantastic work :)

[Kayls]

Brilliant story!

[Dan Ryoma]

The story itself was very good. I liked that he had no choice but to kill himself in the end. However, I think the reveal of setting could have been done better. Instead of just coming out and explaining to the reader what the man's surroundings looked like, you could have the man stop and rest for a moment to observe his surroundings. It didn't seem like part of the story. I also think you could have had more build up to the tragic end. You could maybe even have some dialogue between the people chasing him and him. Other than that the fundamental idea of the story was great and I still got a sense of thrill from reading it.