Meadow of Swords
Sometimes she wakes up in a meadow of swords. A jagged field of blades of all sorts ā lances, swords, knives ā pointing like tall dense wheat from somewhere deep in the ground. She dances around in the meadow in her sneakers, the blades making little cuts in her rubber soles.Ā
Sheās light, and good at hopping around, but soon the blades are poking right through her shoes and into her foot-soles. The pain shoots right into her head and makes her whirl. She whirls and whirls. The blades draw little rivulets of her blood, and she keeps spinning and twirling and sinking her feet in the pain. She canāt stop. She canāt get out.Ā
Sheās really really tired of dancing around in circles. But the field of swords stretches on forever, all the way up to the horizon ā miles and miles of sharp, torturous carpet like a heroās trial. She keeps running, her head pounding, her shoes shredding.
The sky above is blue. She wishes she could fly.
