Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Escape (01/02/06)
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TITLE: Slip of the Mind | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
01/09/06 -
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“Looking for something?”
Laura wheeled around, two braids flying like little wings.
Uncle Terry was leaning against the counter, propping himself on one elbow. He gave her a lazy grin and winked.
“Come here and give your Uncle Terry a kiss.”
Laura stared at him, hoping that if she stood very still, Uncle Terry would be lured back to the living room where she could hear the television singing out a car commercial.
“Ah, come on. Don’t be shy.” He pushed himself away from the counter and sauntered towards Laura. He squatted down before her, so close she could smell the rancid coffee on his breath.
“Let’s say we go watch some television,” he wheedled, as he laid his hand on her shoulder and pulled her towards him. Laura braced herself, but Uncle Terry was insistent and maneuvered her through the kitchen to the living room. With one swift movement, he lifted her into his arms and sat down on the sofa.
“Now, how come you’re playing so hard to get? You know your Uncle Terry loves you, don’t you?”
Regarding him intently, Laura saw the gold flecks in his eyes, the hairs in his nostrils, and the mole by his right ear. Dread quivered in her belly as Uncle Terry stroked his cheek with her hand. Stubble rasped against her fingers, and she swallowed the sour fear rising in her throat.
“Cat got your tongue, darlin’?” Uncle Terry drew back in mock hurt, but at the same time, he put his hand on her leg. Laura flinched. “Ah, baby, let’s not have that, okay?”
The hand moved.
Laura closed her eyes. She contemplated the distance from the sofa to the kitchen and wondered if she could get through the door and escape before Uncle Terry could catch up. She counted... and then leapt up, pushed against Uncle Terry’s chest with all her strength, and propelled herself off his lap. She darted around the dining room table and threw herself against the door, almost falling as she landed on the wooden stoop.
Laura didn’t risk a glance behind her as she raced around the corner of the house, through the hedge, and onto the neighbour’s lawn. Falling to her hands and knees, she crawled beneath a shrub, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She rolled herself tightly into a ball and lay with her cheek pillowed on the grass, its sweet green fragrance calming her. In the branches overhead, birds sang, mindless of the soothing effect of their cheerful melody.
After a time, Laura sat up and wiped her face. She listened for any sounds of activity next door, and hearing nothing, got up and peered through the hedge. There was no sign of Uncle Terry. She made her way to the sidewalk and began to walk down the street, disregarding the rule that she wasn’t to leave her yard.
Mr. Rutherford was mowing his lawn, and he waved to her. The Morrison children were playing with a frisbee, their dog barking and snapping at their heels, and she laughed at his antics. When she passed Mrs. Meier’s house, the elderly woman beckoned to her and gave her a fresh-cut rose. Laura breathed in the heavy scent and sighed.
By the time Laura reached the playground, her heart had quieted. She pumped high on the swing, the rush of wind on her face drying the last of her tears.
Tiring of the swing, she pushed herself on the little merry-go-round, watching the world spin by, circling faster and faster. She tilted her head back and looked into the sky, the clouds spiraling as she turned. But, with dismay, she felt nausea begin to rise, bile burning the back of her throat. She gave a choking cough, and panic mounting, struggled to stop the merry-go-round.
“Well, doll, that wasn’t so bad, eh?” Laura opened her eyes and looked up into Uncle Terry’s gold-flecked gaze. “Why don’t you go outside and play? Go on.”
He pushed her from his lap and gave her a pat. “Don’t forget you’re my little doll-baby.”
Laura went outside and sat on the stoop. Overhead, the birds were singing, and she could hear the far away drone of a lawnmower. By the step was the tattered remains of a bedraggled rose...
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Our craft is best when the craft is transparent and the experience is real. You have accomplished this with terrible greatness. Thank you.
Other than that, may God continue to increase your gift of writing. Very well done.
Great win.
Wow.