Prompt from PrideOnThePage
The air is growing stale and close. I press my hands against the cool, smooth, gently curving surface surrounding me. Searching.
I know there are no holes. The air is too still. But perhaps there is a crack? A soft spot? A place to start.
If not… my lungs are already straining.
The pearlescent glow from outside illuminates the walls of my prison but little else. I am forced to crouch and brush my fingers across the floor. Seeking anything harder than my fists or sharper than my nails. Something I can use.
It’s probably already too late. My breath is loud in my ears and heavy in my chest. But waiting hasn’t worked yet.
Ah! My hand bumps something. As smooth as the walls but colder and more slick. I grasp it tight and slowly stand, my other hand groping for the wall to support me.
My tool is heavy and pleasing to grip. A sort of teardrop shape. I hold the narrower end and fix my gaze on the wall in front of me.
The first blow pings off, my tool skidding sideways. After a few more tries I learn that I need to use a gentler strike, one I can keep control of. I’m reduced to tapping.
I switch my grip, holding the thick end of the tool in the palm of my hand and turning the narrow, not-quite-sharp end on the spot I’ve chosen. Finally I feel it dig into the surface. Just a little.
Tck-tck-tck-tck-tck
My already small world shrinks to a pinpoint. There is only my laboured breathing, my tool, and the pitting I can see forming in the wall. My body feels distant and disinterested.
With the surface now roughened I develop a twisting, picking motion. Chips stick to my front and crowd my feet. My heart grumbles. Slothful. I have no time to chide it.
The brightening glow gives me hope. I am getting closer. I must be.
My lungs wonder if the outside even has air. I ignore them.
I cannot dig deeper; the hole has grown beyond the tool’s reach and is too small. I manoeuvre the tool around. Clumsy. My fingers have forgotten how to bend together.
Chunt-chunt-chunt
Splinters nip at my skin on their way past. Not just on my legs, they’re erratic. I hear them tinkle against the walls behind me.
Around and around I go. Making the hole bigger each pass. Wider. Deeper.
I can taste the light now. Or is that the dust?
Then I feel it. The wall under my tool doesn’t chip - it gives.
Air rushes in. It’s fresh and heady and stinks I cough and retch and gulp it down I can’t get enough.
With each gasping inhale my focus unclenches. I can feel my body again. An intimate stranger cradled into my mind.
Together we raise the tool and bring it down again, again, again.
Splinters are flying outside the shell now.
Light embraces us.
We can breathe.
Emerging.
Unfurling.
Free!
Prompt was “Freedom”.
Leeron, I was in that egg. Curled, quiet, sensing more than seeing. I didn’t know when breath would shift from rationed to rushing in, only that I’d learned how to wait longer than I should. Reading your piece, I felt the turning point—how your rhythm changed, how you found the movement that stayed steady, not forceful. That’s where I caught my breath too. The image of the tool, not as weapon, more as companion—yes. That cracked something tender open in me. I loved how your freedom didn’t burst, it built. It spiraled. It widened. It remembered. You reminded me that even stale air holds the memory of sky.