A thorn in her foot stopped her in her tracks. She paused. “Dare I bend to get it out?”
She took a step and faltered. It cut like glass though her sole was hard as leather. She paused. “I must get it out.”
She bent forward and faltered. Swiftly, like wind upon the prairie grass she bent, she fell and she faltered. The ground rose up to meet her as she melted into it, thorn in foot, naked as the blades of grass around her.
She lay upon the ground, silent in her fear, in her fury.
And time passed.
And the grass was soft and the thorn was forgotten and her fears and her fury melted around her, like clay in rain, hard edges gone, softness, roundness, nothingness. And she slept.
“Did anyone ever come to help her” asked the young brave as he faced the ancient hills before him, watching them glow in the setting sun.
His father stood silently beside him, staring at the hills.
“That’s not the question, my son,” he finally said. “The question is why do you believe she needs help?”
- A writing experiment by Robin Winzenread Fritz