Post by Mlle Bienvenu on Apr 20, 2005 23:22:31 GMT -5
Sandstorm
I left my name written in the sand. It would not stay for long. I didn't know, on that day, that as the name given to me by Ishbalah was eroded away, so I would be. That was the last time I saw my name.
The winds from the West began to pick up. It would be another sandstorm. A few grains at my feet were disturbed, falling into the wells that marked my name, trying to reach equilibrium, but the wind would not let them. Instead, the wind scattered them, forcing them into the air. It bore my name into the air, and I could almost hear it being whispered in the sand-voice of the storm. A million grains, screaming battlecries, pleading prayers, cursing oaths, uttering blasphemies, sighing death rattles. That was the last time I heard my name.
I raise my arm to shield my eyes. My arm stings as the sandblasting wind whips around it and is only stopped by my exposed forehead. The numberless grains, blown about by halocaust winds, like tiny relentless knives erode away my skin. They leave reddish burns, marks like a tattoo artist's pen. Marks that never go away. Scars that never heal. But my eyes are safe.
Even so, I cannot see. My arm blocks my vision. For the moment I am blind. My foot sinks into the sand where my name had been, and I am gone.
I left my name written in the sand. It would not stay for long. I didn't know, on that day, that as the name given to me by Ishbalah was eroded away, so I would be. That was the last time I saw my name.
The winds from the West began to pick up. It would be another sandstorm. A few grains at my feet were disturbed, falling into the wells that marked my name, trying to reach equilibrium, but the wind would not let them. Instead, the wind scattered them, forcing them into the air. It bore my name into the air, and I could almost hear it being whispered in the sand-voice of the storm. A million grains, screaming battlecries, pleading prayers, cursing oaths, uttering blasphemies, sighing death rattles. That was the last time I heard my name.
I raise my arm to shield my eyes. My arm stings as the sandblasting wind whips around it and is only stopped by my exposed forehead. The numberless grains, blown about by halocaust winds, like tiny relentless knives erode away my skin. They leave reddish burns, marks like a tattoo artist's pen. Marks that never go away. Scars that never heal. But my eyes are safe.
Even so, I cannot see. My arm blocks my vision. For the moment I am blind. My foot sinks into the sand where my name had been, and I am gone.
