Tiny Wor(L)d(s) pt.6
For newcomers to Tiny Wor(L)d(s):
For newcomers to Tiny Wor(L)d(s)
This is a choose-your-own-adventure style thing I'm making up as we go along. I do, however, have a set plotline.
Please note every single detail I write. Everything I write is a clue as to what you could do.
And a warning—there are bad endings. I'd hope y'all make good decisions. Because there are the good ones and there are the bad ones that will get you stuck.
However, if you do die, you are granted the ability to restart from the decision that led to your immediate ■■■■■. But if you make a decision that leads to eventual ■■■■■, there is no saving you.
Leading from that, everyone is free to state their own opinions. Because if you chose the right choice, but didn't feel that you should tell others... You may have caused your own demise.
Debate is welcome.
On that happy note, let's begin.
CHOICE TAKEN: Check out the fields around you.
I let out a ragged breath, fidgetingly shiver, and begin to limp to the field on my right. My right foot had received a wound; best if I set course for the right, to minimize force required on my gash.
But even this isn't enough to quell the storm of an unnamed feeling inside of me; even this isn't enough to boil it down. The sensation is churning and comes in torrents, launching itself against my stomach and racking my body in shivers. I can feel my pulse in my throat and the rushing blood choking my panting breath. My eyes bulge with a dry gasp and my chest heaves in and out. Blood and adrenaline rush through my veins as fast as they can; if only they were actually carrying things that could help me.
The burrs, the dying wildflowers, the sickly whine of flies in the grass, provide a murky atmosphere in which to suffocate. The musky scent of some animal's waste and a dead something cloud the haze of pollen, blurring my vision ever-so-slightly. I numbly brush away dandelion fuzz from my wound, wearily unsure if the seeds or my dry thumb hurt more. A fly lands on the back of my sweat-soaked hand and I feel its wings stop vibrating, it slowly sinking its hairy feet into the grooves of my skin, crawling, searching for a source of water and food. It takes off.
The thing starts vibrating again, slick with my palm's sweat and my slow breathing.
Voices sound in the distance, followed by the barking of dogs and the honking of a broken horn. Footsteps of polished leather on worn gravel, the crunch of loose pebbles and seed pods under shined heel. Grass brushes my ears, and I reach to scratch them, suddenly alarmingly wary of the situation. The voices get audibly louder and clearer as they advance, as my ears yearn for the gift of sound. Somehow I feel like I've been in this situation before.
Cream-walled rooms and nursery lights, a woman's face, a tinkling laughter, the whiff of steamed broccoli, sound of cold milk being poured into a glass, sheets being pulled over head, muffled xylophone music.
A woman walks into the room and sets the platter down on a right-faced nightstand, rubs the head of a me. A child. A small me, buried under blankets, sweat mounting on forehead.
But no, that couldn't be right. I wasn't a child. I was much taller than that.
And suddenly my legs lengthen and I'm not so round anymore and her face isn't so smiling anymore, she whispers with a horrified gasp and called for a Luciel, Luciel come help, there's someone in the house.
Sitting, alone, in a hallway pristinely cleaned by the janitors, running my finger along a crack in the white tiled floor, keenly listening to the conversation.
My mother is in there and talking to a principal. I strain my ears, so much as to almost comically wiggle them, but I get nothing. My breathing is curiously shallow yet slow as my head spins, the few words that do make it out whisked away drips of cold, cold saltwater.
Deafness... Disablities... School policies... experiments... help...
And suddenly it's a grown and shabby and ragged me, curled into a fetal position, slow jerky breaths racking my lungs as tears roll off my cheeks.
And so quickly the world around me falls apart, I am left standing alone, in the dust-covered reeds, nervously fingering a vibrating black object that I have yet to uncover, like my past.
A drop of sweat falls from my temple into my ear and I relish the brief cool.
A dog's collar winks loudly in the background, chasers beginning to run, woofing, and I lay, paralyzed with the unknown feeling, as I take in the crunching of grass beneath their feet. The disgusting panting and sniffing of the dogs rings in my hearing until I can almost feel the hot breath, smell the odor, see the overarching uniforms of my chasers.
And to be honest, I really don't know what to do.
- Inspect the thing.
- Play dead.
- Try to run away to The Forest that the path supposedly leads to.
- Try to find a hiding place nearby.
Votes are public.
THE TINY WORLDERS (the few that still have hope for this thing existing,, eheh)