Her ankles had grown wings when she entered the forest, and her hair had a life of its own. Both her hair and the branches whipped her, leaving part of her numb, but she had no way of knowing if they were urging her on or trying to stop her. Regardless, her feet floated an inch above the soaked dead leaves of yesteryear.
Most of their dry brothers danced below her and in front of her, but some flew up around her and nested in her hair.
And the tornado neared from behind.
A Bolg? 
Hamilton
/ September 18, 2012I hate when that happens.
W. R. Woolf
/ September 18, 2012Don’t we all?
Thank you for reading and all the comments, it’s very encouraging 🙂