:: Life in the Lost Lane ::

Life in the Lost Lane
A collective of English Gentlemen

Thursday, September 7

Sections of doubt
- extracts and morsels

“There never was room out here for me.” She said as the door slammed.

…

The sun had risen alone. No one was around to welcome its arrival. The evening before had seen a great feast on the Lower Plane. The people had come out and rejoiced - for a time.
At first, small groups had gathered by the benches and tables. Each bought colourful and fragrant foods of many kinds on platters and in ornate vessels, potent and delicious drinks.
In time the groups grew and began to merge. Gradually the people began eating, drinking, and talking. Some sang with passion. They told tales from their past: of challenges and massacres, of victory and reward.
By the time the sun had set that evening, the people were out. The people were rejoicing.

…

In the silence, all she could hear was her body pounding. The heat and the adrenaline still charged an unsettling shiver. As soon as she noticed the silence, it was gone, washed away by the noise of her heart and lungs and throat. She tried to calm herself. She tried to listen only to her body’s struggle to cope. She failed. Her mind, clear for half a moment soon filled with the looping din of the conversation she had just had - before the door slammed. She heard his voice and those barbed words and they stung. The wounds were still fresh.
The wounds were made deep and fast and wept, before the door slammed.

…

A short distance from the benches and tables, just beyond the high banners and livery of the feast, foothills marked the edge of the Lower Plane. East of the plane was the wood. Here species of trees unknown on the home world grew to great heights and bore fruit filled with fleshy moist tissue. Amongst the trees lived many species, though no one yet had found a way to observe them, let alone capture them.
The science of the people from the Lower Plane had neither concept nor proof of what lived within the great woodland.
At the edge of the woodland, at the base of one of the trees, two people crawled around the towering roots.

…

Getting a grip no longer seemed an option. Any sort of feeling had numbed in the passing moments. She had been running, taking no care for her footing or safety, along the edge of a ravine. Below her rocks fell and collided. Stones hit each other making dust and noise in the ravine. The ravine, silent for millennia, now echoed and roared. A breaking wave of debris fell down the slope behind the moving person, a trail of commotion that never caught up with its cause. She ran as fast as she could. Driven on by fear, knowing she was going out toward nothing. No one would find her where she was going. She was still going as fast as she could. If she stopped, she would have to try and go back, to wrestle with the decision of life or death. Stopping could never be an option. Her grip had slipped long ago. A perspective, firm and almost certainly suicidal, had emerged. Her legs rubbed in the suit as she ran. She carried on. When did her grip to slide? Why had she not seen this coming before the door slammed?

posted by E! @ 2:30 PM

about

Hello and welcome from
Life in the Lost Lane.

L3 as it has become known is a fairly dynamic collection of reflections and meditations from a wide selection of authors.

L3 attempts to bring the pain, pleasure and perversion of our individual world (s) to millions.

Contributors are carefully vetted for writing style, insight and the ability to spin a rich tale. More than that, it is the drive and focus of the writers, who all push to define their ‘digital-selves’ that makes them and you welcome here.

If you dislike/like/react/detest what you read here, or even fancy writing yourself, why not let us know. Clicking the author’s name will get you the email address you need to enter Life in the Lost Lane.