Woman Wasteland The projectiles were screaming as they propelled through the air, each head with a thousand glaring red eyes focused on a woman sprinting along the blacktop. This was not where she belonged. The hardened, cold tar beat against her feet as she ran; the air inhaled her; the skyscrapers almost moved to let the sun in her eyes. She was Febronia, with a name that sat like sour milk on every urban's tongue. Here said urbans were, trying to shoot her down with their alien devices, to kill the nuisance that dared let the city air breathe her into its iron lungs. For having a world against her, she navigated it with impossible speed. Her soul was speeding to the field of weeds that devoured the concrete as waves do sand, to go back to where she could breathe. Weeds turned into shadowy trees, and shadowy trees tuned into liberty. The projectiles darted toward her, making pockets in the ground, shattering concrete into dust. The coarse weeds brushed against her leeae hide boots like feathers. She darted for the trees and hoped she would find safety. Febronia hopped in between two trees that touched the afternoon sun. She ran through the growths of the forest and kept going, even when her ears sensed the cry of trees as they were plastered with a thousand red bullets. They sparkled in the shadow of dying trees. The creatures of the forest were now running as well, fearing that a wasteland was trapping them for dinner. The myais scampered along the dirt floor, shifting left and right out of the way of the bullets. Tree dwellers left their shelter and struggled across the stretch of land, crushed by their own homes. Generally slow-moving creatures sped along, using energy from the vica nuts and kaji fruits they ate earlier. Febronia was among them, popping over dirt-caked ridges, gliding over cracked soil. Her lungs felt like they were full of ocean water and her legs felt like bags full of sand. With every stinging breath she took she knew that the red bullets would devour her if she did not find an escape soon. The animals began throwing themselves into small niches in the dirt. If only she could find one large enough for herself to wiggle into. If not, she would be given a thousand holes, each one with the name of her sins against the urbans. And what were her sins? She was born a wasteland. She emerged from the soil like a glorious flower and lived her #life off the land from which she grew. She knew nothing of the projectiles which were threatening to send her back to where she came. They formed from tar, glass, and steel-in the forest where there are rough concrete trees. They formed from the brains of the urbans, sent to destroy the outsiders of the city. Febronia could not help but fear what the urban mind could do. Her lungs felt like they were collapsing now and she knew that she could not run for much longer. Her head swung around in a sideways axis along with the ground beneath her feet. The falling trees brought her woozy mind back to the air-lax, muscle-strained reality. A large bendea tree collapsed to her left when she saw it. There was a little stony arch in the cliff of rock, tickled by leaves and undergrowth like annoying strands of hair refusing to stay behind the ear. She saw it before the bullets, breathed in a large gulp crisp air as if she were going to dive into cold water. And she ran. She ran faster than she did when she still had pair of fresh legs. Her careful feet tapped over roots and rocks and the roaring air. The bullets ahead of the mass suicidally smashed into the rock above the cave, but she was too fast. As soon as her feet hit the cool rock she slid on her side; throbs from her armpit singing to the beat of her heart drove her up. Her dead legs breathed to #life again, carrying her to what? A dead end? A dangerous cavern? Nothing mattered but the clean air in her lungs and the darkness ahead. The echo of a few pebbles plopping on the cave floor swept through the hollow cylinder. Then a roar-perhaps of trees-ate up the echo and filled the hollow of Febronia's back with a slam of air and dust. The darkness became darker. She stopped and turned to the light of the fall forest, but nothing was there. Febronia's high-pitched cough filled the dusty cavern following the silence. She walked forward, stubbing her toe on a sharp, gritty rock. A curse slithered out from her lips like sour venom. She continued, hands in front, searching for not what she wanted to find. A wall of rock kissed her hands, cracked lips with a coarse beard. Another vat of venom. She slammed against it, on her side, on her back, with her hands. Desperation and panic filled her head like ice water with the viscosity of honey, inching to her toes. She thought that the urbans would end her #life as quickly as the animals- shot with the projectile, body retaliating, #lifeless vigor in her eyes. But no. They had to suffocate her in a cave, waiting until her panicked breaths sucked up all the breathable air. But were they waiting? Or would they not care enough to kill her? Febronia took short, shallow breaths and short, shuffling steps. Her legs brushed past rocks, her toes curled up once she bumped into them. Her boots were a solid barrier between her and slicing her feet open on the shattered rock. Febronia placed her right hand on a rough wall of rock and began to inch into the cave. She tapped the rock ahead with her foot remembering her mother's adventures into the Daen caves. Febronia had sat with her sister during cold winter nights and begged her mother for a story. The scowl of her mother's face in response was as dark as the cave until she noticed the children would not leave her alone until she told the story. Their mother sat with an air of disgusted defeat and brought back her childhood's search for treasure. Febronia's sister held onto her breath when her mother entered the cave, almost fell in a hole full of water, and exited the cave without the sought-after goods. But Febronia never understood why her sister was so scared. Her mother was sitting upright in her torn red armchair, unscathed. Febronia chest was full of needles and her mother was nowhere to guide her. She imagined he mother's mess of bright red curly hair bouncing around in the darkness. And what of Febronia's bright red straight hair? Did it bounce with childhood's frivolity, or a woman's scowl, or somewhere in between?
