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What you are about to read is similar to a movie trailer. Instead of a summary, you will find 5 separate scenes from the story Do Birds With Clipped Wings Still Long To Fly?
They may or may not be in order.
They may or may not catch your interest.
Read on, my lovely friends.
This party is about to begin.
But I'm still notdyingnow.
NDN
"Did it go that bad?" I hear Josiah ask as he entered the room.
"Uhhh. Not right now. Can you please leave me alone?" I pleaded.
"Sure," he sighed. It was barely a moment later that I felt the bed sink under his weight.
"Ugh! Josiah!"
"Mmmmmm," he sighed. "I love it when you call me by my first name."
"And I would love it if you gave me some time alone!"
"Really? I thought you loved me."
"I do, but that does not mean I do not want some alone time."
"Well, shut up, and let's have some alone time together."
I rolled my eyes. "I can't believe you just told me to shut up. Gosh, what a charmer," I smiled sarcastically.
"Hey, my charms worked on you, didn't they?"
That immediately wiped the smile from my lips. I grunted in reply and tried to relax into the bed which was not easy to do since Josiah was drawing designs with his finger on my stomach.
"What are you doing?" I asked after a moment.
"Shhhh. I'm writing you a love letter," he whispered in a tone that was surprisingly serious. I lifted my head to look at him. After a moment, he returned my gaze. "What?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. You've just changed a lot. That's all."
He gave me a crooked grin. "Not at all. You're the one who's changed. You became a part of my family, and what can I say? I love my family." A small smile came to my lips as he pressed a quick kiss to my stomach. He then reached up to my ear as he placed his hand gently on my stomach. "And I can't wait to start ours."
I laughed and pulled his hand away, but held it in mine. I watched as I entwined our fingers. His hand was like mine in every way, only more: slightly more tan, slightly larger, rougher, everything. He watched me as I stared transfixed at our two hands. I do not know why, but I loved seeing them together. Something about it was so romantic to me.
There was nothing like too many hours of boredom and a good night's rest. An idea was born. A plot formed. An action to be taken. I craftily snuck my way down into the kitchen and confiscated the dish soap. Why? Three very important reasons:
1) Dish soap made for highly effective bubbles when taking a bath. It also helped me get clean.
2) Because it created more suds, I could enjoy them longer and consequently, stay in the bath longer.
3) Finally, the longer I was in the bath, the more time I spent away from Josiah.
Why did I need to stay away from Josiah? Well, that was a little more complicated, but for your sake, I will try to explain.
One thing you need to know about me is that I am not one of those people who falls in love right away. I do, however, get attracted right away, and Josiah was very attractive.
Due to my circumstances, we spent a lot of time together. This allowed for the attraction to grow. I am not saying I am in love with him, but I am not saying I am not either. I don't know. I know I don't want to find out.
Hence, hiding in my bathroom with an uncomplicated soap beard and a grand imagination seemed like a much better idea than hanging out in the house where I may come into contact with a certain young man. I softly stroked my beard as I day dreamed.
A knock at my bathroom door startled me into sawing off a large chunk of it. I sighed in dismay.
"Poppy?"
"DO NOT COME IN HERE!" I squealed, shoving the bubbles around my frame just in case. I heard a laugh.
"I wasn't planning on it. It's Josiah, by the way."
"Yeah, I could tell," I sighed, not really paying attention to whether or not he could hear me.
Guilty.
My mind was my prosecutor.
My thoughts were my judge, and my conscious my jury.
It was unanimous.
I was guilty, and every atom in my body capable of feeling was punishing me and reminding me of the verdict.
My sentence? Being eaten alive by my guilt. And boy, did it eat slowly, munching away at any dignity and self-esteem I had left.
I do not know how long I slept, but after I woke up, Kendrick told me it would be about eight hours until we reach our destination. I would guess that was maybe half an hour ago. Which, if you do the math, means we still have a long freaking way to go.
And for however long the journey lasts, I get to spend it reminiscing about Oliver. I get to see him getting shot over and over and over like highlights on repeat on every freaking news channel. I get to feel guilty and stay feeling that way. Hooray me.
Oh, and maybe I'm feeling a bit depressed, too. And in case they get lonely, why not add in some bitterness and sarcasm? My favorites.
I was so mad at Oliver and freaked out about the situation, that I did not want to listen to him. I was too concerned with the rude, pathetic-excuse-for-a-person currently sitting behind me. Thanks to me, Oliver was shot three times and is now probably dead.
I do not know if this was one of those times where five minutes pass and feel like an hour, or if it was one of the ones when half a day goes by and feels like an hour. I do not know how long I had been walking—or tripping and being dragged along behind, but I am going to estimate and say an hour.
I do not think anyone was keeping track, and it's not like this was a test. Therefore, no one should criticize me if my estimate was incredibly off the mark. I grew up with microwave clocks and cell phones, not sun dials. Sorry.
They walked, and I "walked" behind them. They were silent in their movements, whereas I, well, was not. My body was definitely drugged from whatever had been put into my mouth. I longed to collapse and sleep. My energy was beyond drained and empty. Every movement was sluggish.
However, my mind was very active and very sharp. I was aware of everything. Despite the fatigue, my senses were very. . . well, sensitive. I could actually count the hairs moving on my arms as the wind passed over them. It was a very bizarre feeling, and probably why I kept tripping. It was distracting. . . okay, that and I was too tired to go on.
After what I assumed to be an hour, a miniature model of the people next to me dropped out of a tree. He, or she, possibility even it, reached the middle of the taller ones' thighs. He crouched down low and hissed barbarically.
My eyes grew wide as I saw my certain death coming, but the ones around me merely hissed back. They snapped their teeth, hissed like snakes, and clapped their barbaric hands. Was that their language? Again, utterly bizarre.
I had also noticed these guys had no belly buttons, only eight fingers and toes, but get this, they had five knuckles on their hands. When they waved their abnormal digits, it looked like a robotic snake. Honestly, it disgusted me.
I hoped I was not to be some goddess or prize. Please, do not let me be some virgin sacrifice. Maybe they would cut off my head and shrink it. Who knows? One thing I had come to realize was that nothing was as it seemed. The second thing was that anything was possible, and in my case, probable.
So I was not going to put anything too far out for reality. Hm, on that note, maybe these are angels that will save me? Yeah, I did not really think so either. Everything about these people screamed, "You are about to die! . . . Painfully!" Great.
Oliver stared at his friend for a few minutes as he thought of the possible implications of the mentioned situation. With pain in his heart, he quickly realized that this was a lose-lose situation. The only possible way to get any sort of win would be to end it as fast as possible. However, being too rash could result in a more traumatic loss. Damage control would be his focus. It was the only option.
"Go. Gather everyone. We need to get planning," Oliver stated slowly as he sat down numbly. McKinnon nodded and started to walk away when he heard, "And then return to your post. I want eyes and ears on everything. The slightest variance over there could have a tremendous impact upon our course of action."
Again McKinnon nodded. With empathy coursing through his veins, he continued along the path. He was tempted to look behind and give Oliver one last glance, to offer some supportive words, but he knew nothing he could say would bear any difference in his friend's attitude.
Oliver was a legend, a champion in his own right. Everyone in their camp admired him. The only thing unfortunate or undesirable about being the hero was the guarantee of an enemy. And now Oliver, the man who least deserved it, was bearing a burden he should never have to carry.
The love of his life, the girl he is to marry, was falling head over heels for his worst enemy, an all-around fiend. There is no witty card and envelope for situations like that for a reason: People wouldn't buy it.