The Writers' Circle

chloerose08: Whenever I listen to music, storys and places and people form in my head, which follow the beat of the song. I decided to write down my favourite - adding description here and there but still remaining with the scene that always unfolds in my head.
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Under the rotting earth they can probably feel my feet hitting the surface, a steady, sorry drumbeat. The foliage is dense but I know it is clearing out. The autumn has settled and there is that smell, and the sound of slow death. The leaves have detached themselves from their branches making a crisp carpet, and adding further sound to the orchestra of the forest. I am running after them, but it seems the further I stretch my legs, the faster they can run. I cannot see anything but the trees, the edges have blended into a non-existence. Even though the gangly arms reach out to hit, I just run because I know that I will never be able to stop unless I reach them. 
Gripping cautiously at first, when I am unsure if I have if I have really made it. The ladder is not safe but I have to climb inside. I am nearly there, the chorus of the wood is louder than ever, a deep song, brushing past me, it is sad in places. It is dies down into a sorrowful note, awaiting front lines. I fall, it seems slower than ever. The beat is like a war hero's funeral. But I do not hit the earth; I am swallowed into a darkness. Endlessly black and hopeless. But there is a flicker, it is bright at first but my eyes adjust so that I am used to it. The boy is burning, like a lamp, providing me with sight, to see a tunnel, like the miners use. The boy is the right height but I have to crawl. The odour of the disturbed soil is putrid and seeps into every part of me. The song is sweet down here. Loving, like the sugary warmth of a lullaby. The boy holds my hand; it does not burn me, but shows me how cold it is down here. Chilling breeze of death. He leads me through the labyrinth, never turning the corners. He seems so sure where he is going. Finally he stops, hesitant at first, he seems to wait until the musicians join him in showing me the way out. I push on the roof of the tunnel, and it opens. Every speck of sunlight clings to me, blinds me for a few seconds. The autumn has done and the death is upon the forest. I am eager to break the ice which now forms over a mighty lake.