By the time the dragons found me, I figured it was too late. The blood leaking from my torn skin slowed from a trickle to drops, like the steady ticking of a clock. Drip, drop, drip. Time was up—when I needed it to call out for someone, to fight, to run, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. Because I saw the Olympians, the gods; therefore, I must be dead.The critique:
But reality returned in a violent lurch, releasing me from the darkness dragging me down, down, deeper down. They arrived in a frenzy of movement and sound. Pounding footsteps crushing the grass parched dry from summer's heat. Faces whirling above, varicolored masks. Swelling voices. Hands on my body, touching the wet, sticky scarlet stains.
The twelve gods watched, stoic and silent. The sight of them fading didn't make me realize I still lived, that my heart still pumped and my lungs still inflated with precious air. It was him, the sight of the boy with the pale skin and messy auburn hair and improbably bright blue eyes. It was his words of Hang on grounding me in the here, the now. It was him calling my name, calling me. He kept me from letting go.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013