{"id":111,"date":"2011-03-14T09:00:41","date_gmt":"2011-03-14T16:00:41","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/?p=111"},"modified":"2011-03-13T15:05:27","modified_gmt":"2011-03-13T22:05:27","slug":"playtime-facebook-request-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/playtime-facebook-request-1\/","title":{"rendered":"Playtime – Killing Friends 1"},"content":{"rendered":"

For Dana Backus<\/em><\/p>\n

The waves gently brushed against the kayak like little fingers, carrying it downstream. The sun was low in the sky and the breeze cool. Dana held her paddle on her lap letting Mother Nature decide where she would end up.<\/p>\n

A lot had happened to Dana throughout her life that had forced her to grow up faster than she would have liked. There were traits, though, that she could never let go. Her curious nature and child-like sense of adventure had always overpowered the adult inside her. When she was on the lake, with no one else around, it seemed as though that adult side was completely gone \u2013 along with the responsibilities that came with it. She was relaxed, both physically and mentally. Then she heard the scream.<\/p>\n

It came from the forest, the cry of a young child. Dana turned her head towards the sound in order to discover the source. The screaming subsided and was replaced by crying. She debated investigating but realized she was being silly. By the time she could get ashore and find the child, the parents would have already attended to it. Surly they were nearby. She drifted away.<\/p>\n

Roughly forty-five minutes had passed since Dana had heard the crying. She sat staring into the water taking solace in the rhythmic waves. Removing the paddles from her lap, she prepared for the long journey back upstream towards home. Once she had begun to row, the crying returned. <\/p>\n

She sat, silently listening. The child’s voice began to grow hoarse. Had the child travelled all this way downstream? Her curiosity got the better of her. She rowed the boat to the shoreline and tied it securely to a tree. Once the rope was tightened, she made her way into the forest \u2013 following the sound.<\/p>\n

It wasn’t long before she came across a small clearing. In the middle was a tiny, crying, boy with his back pressed against an old, rotting tree stump. She looked around, no sign of anybody nearby. The boy appeared to be alone. She moved close to him and got down on her knees.
\n
\n\u201cHi\u201d, she said, \u201cWhat’s your name?\u201d the boy immediately stopped crying and stared up at her, rubbing the tears from his eyes and leaving behind blotches of dirt on his face. Dana pressed her hand to her chest. \u201cMy name is Dana\u201d. He didn’t reply.<\/p>\n

Dana stood up, wiping the dirt from her jeans. She scanned the clearing again, looking for any sign of the boy’s family. <\/p>\n

\u201cHello\u201d she shouted, \u201cis anyone there?\u201d. While her back was turned, she heard movement. She quickly turned around and caught a glimpse of the small boy running out of the clearing into the thick brush. She chased him, screaming after him to wait. Deeper into the forest she ran, the sky growing darker from the setting sun. The trees were thick and dark shadows stretched out in all directions. Fear began to overwhelm her but still, Dana chased after the sounds made by the boy. He was unnaturally fast. She struggled to keep up \u2013 unable to gain ground on him. <\/p>\n

Suddenly, her foot was snagged in an external root belonging to an old oak tree. Dana hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her body as the air was forced from her lungs. She slowly pushed herself to her feet. The leg of her pants was torn and blood soaked the denim. She quickly realized she was back in the clearing. It was much darker now but still she recognized the old stump that the boy initially leaned against. <\/p>\n

Dana limped into the centre of the clearing listening for the boy. Behind her, the crying started up again. Nervously, she walked towards it. Then, the sound shifted. The crying was now coming from the opposite direction. She stopped in her tracks, suddenly very afraid. Her lip began to tremble as the crying moved through the forest. It seemed to be coming from all directions now. The crying grew louder and the trees began to shake.<\/p>\n

A tiny squeak escaped Dana as she ran into the path towards her kayak. She stumbled downhill towards the water, ignoring the pain in her leg. Whatever was chasing her was getting closer. The trees shook all around her. Dana could feel small hands grabbing at her shirt and pants, pinching her skin as they did. She eventually found herself unable to move. Through her tears, she saw small, pale hands holding her in place.<\/p>\n

With a groan, Dana pushed with all her strength, breaking the hold the hands had on her. The sudden release sent her tumbling forward. She fell through the trees, landing on the beach near her kayak. She stared in horror at her tiny vessel. It had been torn to pieces \u2013 most of it submerged in the water. She had no way out \u2013 no where to go.<\/p>\n

Dana let out a loud scream as many tiny hands grasped her ankles, pulling her back into the darkness, towards the sound of laughing children.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For Dana Backus<\/em><\/p>\n

∼ Continue Reading ∼<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8,16,19,14,10,4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-111","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-flash-fiction","category-horror","category-killing-friends","category-requests","category-shorts","category-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/111","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=111"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/111\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":151,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/111\/revisions\/151"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=111"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=111"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=111"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}