Her playhouse was made of leaves and vines, of sticks and
trees. Sunlight filtered into it, setting her stage of childhood and sorrow with
spackles of brightness and shadow.
Inside, drawn up against the forest floor, she counted to
ten, again and again, a whispered repetition that became more frantic, labored
breath catching on each hurried number.
Somewhere, a twig would snap. A bird would call. And the
girl would freeze, thinking her adventure over, knowing her freedom was
fleeting. He would find her. He always did. No matter how still she grew or
quiet her counting.
He always did.
Author's Note: Fiction inspired by #100WordSong, the brilliant weekly writing challenge from my buddy Lance of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. This week's song was "Runaway" by Jefferson Starship chosen by the delightful Kir of The Kir Corner.
