The dust kicked up from beneath her worn sandals, the grinding sound only growing louder as the heavy steel boots behind her closed in.
Stay focused. Straight ahead.
The darkness was closing in, the great shadow that threatened to eat her just out of reach.
Ahead, the cliff threatened. Behind, death.
She picked up speed, her teeth grinding into her lip, the sweat from her legs dripping to the dirt below.
The screeching sound became deafening. She pushed harder.
As the black closed in on her back, the cliff edge met her toe. To the engagement of every muscle in her body, she flung herself over the edge, narrowly missing the deep burning that accompanied those who came in contact with the Steel Saint of Surrender.
But her suffering was only delayed. Down, down she plunged. Deeper into the abyss, closer to the ravine that spelled a very graphic ending. She engaged her energies, flexed her back, reaching outwards, willing the baby wings to burst forth and expand. They refused. They fought. They teased.
With a final burst of force, she thrust both arms and both legs backwards with a scream, “Come forth!”
The ground just inches away, an angry explosion broken her small frame. In the very moment she threw her hands before her to block the rocks that would take her, a desperate scream ripping her throat in two, she –
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!! ASCHER’S HITTING ME!”
“OF ALL THE FUCKED UP PIECE OF SHIT $&@*%**. I WAS THERE! I WAS RIGHT FUCKING THERE, MOTHER FUCKERS! YOU’RE GROUNDED. YOU’RE ALL GROUNDED FOR THE REST OF YOUR MISERABLE LIVES! YOU CAN WRITE THE FUCKING BOOK YOURSELVES IF YOU’RE SO IMPORTANT!”
And that’s why writers should never, ever, ever, ever, ever have kids.