The clearing

The undergrowth thins and I stumble into a clearing.  I’m soaked to the skin, wet jeans cold and clammy.  My naked arms, tapped together behind my back, itch from their encounters  with briars and nettles.  A voice shouts somewhere behind me, answered by another.  I stumble forwards, tripping on a root, landing heavily on my side at the edge of a dark pool.  Half of me wants to just lie here and wait.  The other half knows it would be a fatal mistake.  I struggle to my knees, then up onto my feet and set off back into the woods.


A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words