Free Flutter by L. E. Green

vines and twine.
    “Get her!” voices cried out from between the brush.
    She began to run, dodging the vines that reached out for her arms and legs. One vine caught her and twisted around her neck stopping her in her tracks. Four more vines grabbed her arms and legs, lifting her up off the ground, sprawling her out above the jungle floor. Her wrists and ankles bled from the places where the vines attached themselves to her body. Thorns pierced into her skin. Loud drums played in her head faster and faster as she hung above the slithery ground. Suddenly, the vines let go and she fell; but she landed flat on her feet, which smashed against the wet leaves and tree roots. She ran again and tripped. Her heart pounded against the back of her chest. The leaves closed in around her, getting thicker. It was getting harder to move through the thicket. She looked back and saw jungle natives in pursuit. She stood up again and ran.
    Black oily ooze flowed out of her mouth to the back of her neck and down her spine. She screamed in agony, stretching her arm, gripping at her back as far as she could reach. The oil burned and eventually caught fire as she continued to run. She screamed again and the scream sounded like the screech of a bird of prey. She turned and looked at the men behind her to see if they were gaining ground.
    “Ado a balidah,” she yelled at the men behind her.
    They were closing in on her. She was suddenly hit with an arrow in her shoulder. She screamed in pain. The world became blurry. They must have poisoned the tip of the arrow. She looked back again to see where she was; the native men were gone but two men in suits were now chasing her. She ran until she came to the edge of a cliff. The men were getting closer; she had no choice. She jumped off the cliff into a cloud of smoke. The smoke engulfed her body. When it cleared, she could see the ground approaching fast. Right before she hit the ground, she woke. She sat up straight. Abigail was breathing hard and sweating.
     
    “What the fuck?” She threw her head back on the pillow and caught her breath.
     
    Larry Crawford was a tall, big bellied Irish man standing 6’3” who lived a simple, lonely life. He had a one bedroom apartment in Cambridge, not too far from the Boston line. His apartment was in an old lingerie factory that was built in 1826. He lived on the third floor which had four other apartments on it. The interior of his apartment was an IKEA showcase and could serve as a model space in the IKEA department store. His apartment was very neat and clean with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors. The apartment looked like a sports bar lounge with sleek modern furniture and sports memorabilia. He was a collector. In separate frames hanging from the walls, he had a Larry Bird jersey, a Drew Bledsoe Jersey, and a signed Bobby Orr Boston Bruins jersey. On the mantle, he had various signed baseballs, gloves and cards in glass cases. On the side was a wet bar with a granite counter top and various top shelf spirits.
    He had 14 foot high ceilings and a simple ceiling fan. Larry’s bedroom was equally as neat and organized as the rest of his apartment. His closet was carefully arranged. The shoes were neatly stacked on racks. His dress shirts were folded and color coordinated. His slacks and jeans were hung on hangers. All of his clothes fit into the closet. He didn’t have very many. His bedroom had a queen sized bed covered in a fitted sheet with two white pillows and the blankets neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He had a 42 inch Toshiba flat screen TV on a stand, a cable box and no other furniture. Needless to say, Larry was very particular about his apartment. He didn’t have much furniture, so that way he could keep track of what he had. He hated clutter in his living space and refused to allow anyone to enter his apartment while wearing shoes. No eating was allowed out of the kitchen.
    Larry tapped away on his computer seemingly preoccupied