WRITING: Walking

Here’s the story developing:

The night rumbled as if dark was a sound.  A slight breeze blew from no particular direction.  It carried a pale scent of smoke.  A wood fire sort of smoke.  He forced himself onward through the trees, one arm limply held in front of him to acknowledge a clear path.

The man was bleeding, red soaking through the t-shirt he’d wrapped around his belly like a cumber-band when he felt the wind wet and cold in his guts.  At first, there had been no pain.

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