Gold stems whip by his face and his heart is pounding so hard it pushes against his ribs. His small legs pump and thud against the loamy earth as he crashes through the wheat. The swaying heads of wheat obscure the darkening skies.
He stumbles out into a clearing and must halt to catch his breath. He tries to listen over the ragged breaths dragging in and out of him like a saw blade bouncing off wood. He hears nothing but the sighing of the wheat in the breeze. No thunderous, pursuing footfalls.
A shadow creeps along the ground. It consumes him. He turns his eyes to those darkening skies and sees the thing there, looking down at him. In his heart he knows it is too late.
Paddy Dobson
26th October 2021