Avery
Tipple-Tossing Tatterdemalion
She was back in the forest, searching. It was there, somewhere in the thick of vernal verdure, left to rust and molder in absence of human hands. It was there, Phaedra only had to find it.
The air was palpable in the forest, so dense that barely a breeze could winnow through its herbage. When beyond the fetid cloud of carrion flowers, the green could be smelt. Sharp coumarins, mellow-sweet nectars, hard woods and loamy soil blended to an earthy perfume which attracted a volant audience.
Though having grown inhospitable to most mammals, the forest was never quiet. Insects thrived in opulence, the air thrumming with their noise. Jeweled beetles dined in saturnalia in the feathery petals of early blooms. Bees combed their legs of gritty pollen. And fat flies rubbed their hands in delight of sweet rewards. Civilization was all but forgotten here.
Phaedra adjusted the muslin ‘round her mouth and neck, it having gone damp some time ago from her breath. Aerolized pollen of the local flora clung to it. Again she starred down the steep embankment, thick with prickling shrubbery that shaded the probing, gnarled roots of their taller brethren.
Just as she had before, dream replaying memory in vague detail, Phaedra began her descent. She was circumspect, sensitivity heightened to perceive what lay underfoot. Nothing should have happened. But something did. Something came suddenly and violently loose. Phaedra’s ankle twisted to compensate, her balance thrown, and she tumbled down the embankment.
There was a stab of electric-white pain as her head struck something. The leg of her pants caught and tore. And like flotsam carried to shore, the green discharged Phaedra into the ditch at the embankment’s foot. There she hoped to rest a moment, regain her composure, but something had lain there, waiting.
On the exposed skin of her leg, it began to burn her. A plant with tumid leaves, upon feeling weight, secreted something caustic with intent to liquefy its victim and absorb that through its pores. Instinctively, Phaedra clawed away onto a path of flattened herbage.
Her shin was red and the layers were visibly peeling back, like a blister picked raw and rawer still. The pain kept sinking deeper. She tried to breath, tried not to panic, but the forest was closing in. A lethargic predator, it smelled her.
And the pain. It was alive, ubiquitous and sadistic. Itching, stinging, prickling-
Phaedra inhaled deeply, the forest went black and suddenly consciousness pulled her from the liquid realm of Morpheus.
She awoke not to green, but the crepuscular light of a room unknown to her. Her pain was not intolerable, but vexing. It itched in convalescence. With what strength she could muster, Phaedra sat up. The furniture underneath creaked damnably loud in protest.
The air was palpable in the forest, so dense that barely a breeze could winnow through its herbage. When beyond the fetid cloud of carrion flowers, the green could be smelt. Sharp coumarins, mellow-sweet nectars, hard woods and loamy soil blended to an earthy perfume which attracted a volant audience.
Though having grown inhospitable to most mammals, the forest was never quiet. Insects thrived in opulence, the air thrumming with their noise. Jeweled beetles dined in saturnalia in the feathery petals of early blooms. Bees combed their legs of gritty pollen. And fat flies rubbed their hands in delight of sweet rewards. Civilization was all but forgotten here.
Phaedra adjusted the muslin ‘round her mouth and neck, it having gone damp some time ago from her breath. Aerolized pollen of the local flora clung to it. Again she starred down the steep embankment, thick with prickling shrubbery that shaded the probing, gnarled roots of their taller brethren.
Just as she had before, dream replaying memory in vague detail, Phaedra began her descent. She was circumspect, sensitivity heightened to perceive what lay underfoot. Nothing should have happened. But something did. Something came suddenly and violently loose. Phaedra’s ankle twisted to compensate, her balance thrown, and she tumbled down the embankment.
There was a stab of electric-white pain as her head struck something. The leg of her pants caught and tore. And like flotsam carried to shore, the green discharged Phaedra into the ditch at the embankment’s foot. There she hoped to rest a moment, regain her composure, but something had lain there, waiting.
On the exposed skin of her leg, it began to burn her. A plant with tumid leaves, upon feeling weight, secreted something caustic with intent to liquefy its victim and absorb that through its pores. Instinctively, Phaedra clawed away onto a path of flattened herbage.
Her shin was red and the layers were visibly peeling back, like a blister picked raw and rawer still. The pain kept sinking deeper. She tried to breath, tried not to panic, but the forest was closing in. A lethargic predator, it smelled her.
And the pain. It was alive, ubiquitous and sadistic. Itching, stinging, prickling-
Phaedra inhaled deeply, the forest went black and suddenly consciousness pulled her from the liquid realm of Morpheus.
She awoke not to green, but the crepuscular light of a room unknown to her. Her pain was not intolerable, but vexing. It itched in convalescence. With what strength she could muster, Phaedra sat up. The furniture underneath creaked damnably loud in protest.