The Endless Wheat

Death came, rode in on nature to take what was alive and replace with void. Death came, it took, space a gaping hole in remainder.

The wheat swayed in the silent breeze. Danced to the silent music, it sung harmony, swaying to and fro. Golden, luminescent, it shone like finely spun gold. Strangely alien, an endless bullion as far as my eye saw. It brushed against my skin, like fine feathers, it caressed my legs as the slight wind sent it fro again. I ran my fingers atop it, like a lover’s hair. Steadily I walked to nowhere. Step after sure step it seemed as though I stood still, the wheat ever endless, on and on it rolled. On it went, deep into the horizon where it met with the dark sullen sky. Clouds gathered in massively bruised tones, heavily pregnant, static with angry promise. I felt the breeze pick up to a wind, cold now, biting, and a slight vengeful snarl to its sigh. It sniped spitefully at the wheat, blowing it against my bared skin. The first flash of lightning blazed, crackled and was swallowed by the amassed clouds. The second flash came, like a nimbus, a halo dressing the heaven it was accompanied by a roll of thunder. Closer the clouds seemed to come, sinister in their undulating gait, rising and falling; inescapably the clouds rode the thunder, wiped in an unhurried fury. Certainly in my direction it came. At last I stopped, stood as the malice swam thickly toward me, it seemed a living thing it the wind, slow and leisurely oddly fat in the hurriedly fuming wind. My heart sped, my conscious suddenly aware of old things in the atmosphere, old things that would have me. It knocked brutally in the cave of my chest, abruptly terrified. I felt it, felt the darkness build intolerably. Higher and denser, still slowly toward me. I ran, I ran as though the very earth bellow me would give way to hell. I ran as though the hounds of death were at my heels. My dear God how I ran. Air gave out, my chest refused to draw in more and I fell to my knees and scrambled to my feet again, snatching wheat from the ground to gain purchase I ran. The house rose, impulsive in its setting, almost reckless, unexpected in the middle of the golden ocean, white as old bones. For it my feet flew as the clouds rolled and rolled over each other like worms squirming in a tin. I ran, closer still and the house loomed. Onto the porch I leaped, fell to the door with my fists, I demanded safe way. I pounded; beat against the door, my frantic hammering like a tattoo sound pummeling a message of fear in the wood. And there, as the door swung, he stood. Bathe in darkness, shawled in shadows, wrapped sick gloom, there death stood. Awaiting me, he stood.
              

Reviews

[Anthony Beal]

You do a good job here of making the approaching storm a fearsome thing by personifying it, almost granting it a kind of predatory sentience. It made this reader want to run with your protagonist and spur him/her onward to escape. The juxtaposition of the theme of endlessness running throughout the piece and in its title, and that of Death, representing the incarnate end of everything, was inspired.