Fiction based on a journal prompt: Describe your first intamite [sic] experience.
Going with it as written–This is how I imagine the dictionary entry for intamite might read:
Intamite: Entered into with inner mightiness. Possessing unexpected peace and fearlessness in the face of overwhelming odds.
Cheryl dropped to the ground, aware of how the leaves crunched beneath her just before she started inhaling deep and long breaths of the fresh air. Coolness hovered here among the greenery and tree bases. One wouldn’t expect a breeze here; maybe it was just cold air sinking. Or warm air rising…
Either way, whatever was happening was going about its business silently. She listened hard. The silence wasn’t natural–no bird calls, no croaking frogs or insects whirring–but it was welcome. Clearly she was alone for the moment.
It was over. For now. She had been running for two hours with not another sound but her bare feet pawing the soft dirt trail. Light. Quick. Leaving little mark behind.
She had always heard that running wasn’t the thing to do. The heart of a warrior stood ground and battled.
Maybe she wasn’t a warrior. Maybe, instead, she was a survivor. If making a stand would serve her better for the next encounter, then that is what she would do. But if running seemed to be the thing to do, then she would do it again. Her running wasn’t cowardice. It was calculated, purposeful, away from the chaos, into the quiet where there was food, water and a place to sleep. She needed time to analyze, plan.