start with a preposition.
Prompt for SoCS on August 23, 2014 from LindaGHill
Within a pocket under a root beneath a tree between fields that traveled along the lake, which glistened during sunrise and gleamed at sunset; near home, but closer toward visiting down at the old elder tree – inside the writhing arbor tentacles, this was where Belina had been since the war among the humans.
This was where she stayed.
She wasn’t meant to be here. It was never approved, it was never spoken about or planned. There was no end-game or goal to finish. Belina existed in her pocket of dirt for nothing other than being herself. She’d known that when the large creatures began to die and the smaller creatures spread like fungi across a rainforest, it was time to leave the surface lands.
In her pocket, she could hear them go about their lives, their various tasks here and there. Hundreds, thousands, hundreds and thousands of years passed and she heard.
In her pocket, is where she stayed.
No one would find her there. She was safe, in this elder tree. Its roots would coddle her when the wind blew hard. When the wind was gentle, it would bring her things to look upon in wonder. Belina loved her elder tree.
She also loved her dirt. The dirt surrounded her with comforting pressure. A living grave of comfort. Specks of soil constantly upon her skin, sometimes becoming one with her. It nourished her, kept her alive. The surface lands seemed a distant memory, barely anything to bother remembering.
Never did she ever want to leave her spot in earth.
Belina had her own time, it didn’t belong to anybody else, but her. With her time, she got to do whatever she pleased. Quicken it, slow it, twist it, wrap it up. Time bent to her will and it pleased her. Made her enjoy living.
Until time slowed. She could feel the second elongate. Frightening.
The second morphed into a minute and she screamed. Why could she not do what she always had done? How come the past was not the present any longer?
A minute to a million seconds of a second minute to an hour.
Then, the roots began to move. Belina felt her world be lifted out from under her, around her; it all lifted up and went above her, disappearing, disappearing.
What have they done?
Belina cried as the dirt fell away around her, flattening. The surface lands claimed her soul once more. The aftermath of the bomb had claimed all the others. She was alone on this barren surface, freed of her utopia.
Her tears flared into fury as her wings outstretched. Centuries fell from them, the dust rising into clouds and the aches rippled with tremors that caused the stars to shiver, announcing her return. Grief forced her into the sky.
She listened. She heard. And She Knew.
One strong movement of her wings was all it took. Belina forced her way through the time sludge as hours and days broiled and bubbled off from her. Mist spun, covering the surface lands, finding the one. The One who’d done it All. She would rend him apart. Claim vengeance for her dirt and soil and time, and old, elder tree.