CNF Writing Exercise: Spirit of the Childhood Past

The air is frigid. The dark soil is wet with puddles everywhere, the water reflecting the dim torches lining the walls. “You’re too late,” I say menacingly, “I can end you at the drop of a single feather.” I hold out a tiny, white down feather and let it fall, watching it slowly float down into a puddle. Floating, wandering-

My teacher calls for me ;we needed to go see the hedgehog exhibit next. I’d been talking to myself, away from my field trip group, playing around with feathers. When they ask what I was doing, I couldn’t answer.