Okay, this is kinda short, cuz' I'm not quite sure if I'll finish the story. I have so much else to do and write, that unless I like the story, or _______ I will not continue it. I shall then delete it from my alias, and it shall disappear into the void of forgotten/deleted stories. There, I made my statement.
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Under the Table and Dreaming
NOTE: Plot based on Tamora Pierce paragraph on page 182, in The Realms of the Gods. Oh yea, much as I hate first person on things like this, I wrote it in first person cuz' like it sounded best like that when I ran the beginning through my brain.
I faced a field of bodies. Red highlighted gashes and cuts. I had to walk through. It was the only way to get there in time. I took my fist step; half-dead bodies tried to grab at my boots. I waded through layers of men, dying painfully, slowly. My brown boots turned red and brown from blood, bits of flesh hung onto my tunic. Bloody hands inched up into the air as I passed and slowed down my progress. They lay littered like dirt, forgotten. The nobles had already been fished out of the slime and gore. All that I faced were dead peasantry. Miles of brownish flesh, rotting in the heat awaited me. Rooks created the only sound on the field. Silence was everything else, motionless waiting. Slowly as I waded through the bodies, I saw them die, slowly losing energy, and movement. Hours of walking, knee deep in people, I finally reached the edge. Trees greeted my body. I felt so numb, apart, so dead. Those bodies effected me; they were treated like dirt. The beauty of the forest was lost on me. Deep greens felt like dried blood, and the pine needles reminded me of the cold dead hands clinging to my boots. I set a fire to wash away the gore, the memories. Their waste disgusted me. The waste disgusted me. I traveled through the wood in a daze of horror. All those people dead, and bloated in the heat. Half ripped apart by animals, both two-legged and four. A cloud of wonder and nausea surrounded me. I reached the edge, only to face another mound of dead flesh. Rotting, reeking the stench of death. Those bodies seemed to relive the terror; I could almost picture the skirmish in my mind.