The Third Annual Writer's Game: Roots

Veni Vidi Vici | Follin Ryme

Follin had always wanted to fly like the crows.

Time and time again had he flung his arms out to the side in wait for the air to rustle his charred feathers. Time and time again had he raised his head and stared down his nose with beady eyes at the ground far, far below. Time and time again had he carefully shuffled forward on something no thicker than a tree branch, toes curling, as if that would offer any support to his constant tilting.

He had finally come to terms with the fact that he would never fly like the crows. Birds - they were graceful, doing somersaults and dives in the air, never once missing a beat, for if they did, they'd go crashing straight to the ground. Straight to the rapids. Follin was not graceful, and he always missed his beats.

It had taken a bottle and a bridge to help him come to his clever little revelation.

His fingers crept over the rail of his infamous bridge, warm from his constant touch. Cold spray speckled his face with every crash of water against a rock, against the supports. Though he couldn't see it in the night, he knew that the foam still raged beneath him - he could hear it. Assaults of water on wood, steady years of erosion. He wondered if he'd still be standing there when the foundation finally crumbled.

Throwing his head back, he brought a glass bottle to his lips, pouring the contents down with such eagerness that he thought he'd never have a taste of it again. His vision blurred momentarily, oranges and shadows clashing. A light was situated on either side of the bridge, bathing the brown wood in a thick yellow, and he had not the slightest idea how to shut them off. It was awfully annoying to see the glare on the bottle whenever he tipped it back. Shame.

Carefully, he set the bottle on the rail beside him, sighing with content. "Why have I never...never ever had this before?" he asked.

Nothing but the threatening squaw of a bird perched in the corners of the roof answered him. With a gasp, he turned, elbow knocking the bottle off the rail entirely. In a pointless attempt to catch it, he reached down, fingers just barely brushing the surface before it went smashing into the rocks below. When he straightened up, he felt as though he'd been reaching for something more than just a bottle: he was reaching for his thoughts. Many times before he'd come to the bridge to rid himself of reused thoughts. Now he wanted them. But they fell without permission, fleeing now that he could appreciate them.

There was nothing there to hold them in, so they flew on out when they wanted, refusing to return home unless it was at a most inconvenient time.

Follin wasn't exactly busy, but the time was surely inconvenient enough for him. That must've been why they flew right back over the railing and returned home.

Slow, steady steps. Quick, shallow breaths. A scab, a scratch, a sudden urge to itch. Eyes go up, eyes come down, left, right, to, fro. Trees loomed, swayed, threatened to collapse and crush him. A clearing would be up ahead, that he knew, and in the center would be a golden horn which would act as a beacon for those remaining.

Jackie, Leo, Roscoe.

Those three were the only ones, and those three needed to kill him in order to get home. They had families - Follin's was gone. They had loves - Follin's lied. They had goals - Follin had one. In the end, he was the one that could risk not going back. But he sure as hell didn't want to die.

He was scared. He was no liar, and he told himself over and over again the same phrase: he was scared.

His eyes ran over the fringes of the clearing where the trees began, knowing full well that three others were doing the exact same as him, checking, scanning, searching. Minds ran wild with what would occur next - who would die, how it would happen. But most of all, what would become of themselves?