Challenge: write a story in the second person.
Tiny airborne insects sift the still air around you, giving the impression of a breeze. Their high, metallic hum carries across the cracked plateau of earth on which you stand, but the otherwise constant whine ceases upon entry to the jungle ahead. The trees provide the shade you crave, yet you are hesitant. The darkness of the wood is foreboding, and when you near the entrance you are aware of a distinct groan emitted from beneath the silent canopy. The burning sun above fails to penetrate the gloom, yet you can make out an indistinct silhouette outlined between the trees. It shakes as though possessed.
Closer still, and the figure becomes recognisable. His semi-naked body reflects the moistness of the jungle air, and his bald head shines like a beacon in the darkness of the wood. You identify him as the source of the unnatural sound, and close in, but shadow falls across the forest floor and you can see no more. Now you, too, are trapped in the gloom.
The stranger straightens up, and softly pads through the trees towards you. Twigs crack beneath his feet. He has no need for stealth; his prey are powerless to escape, unable to see his approach.
You know he is coming, but from which direction? How close is he now? You feel imprisoned behind your unseeing eyes. Now it is your turn to shake.
In range, he stops. He brings his hand slowly, deliberately to his side. He clenches his sweaty fingers around the handle of his weapon, and raises it to the height of your stomach.
One quick swipe that cuts a rift as it passes through the thick air. You don't feel a thing.
The partially clothed stranger swings the blade a second time. As before, it passes a good two meters to your right. He moves forward, the hand wielding his deadly instrument outstretched.
You brace yourself once more but now a slither of hope resides in your mind. You can see no reason why your tormentor would purposely miss. You hardly dare to hope that he too is blinded. But it is a possibility. You had previously assumed, blinded by fear as well as the dark, that his long stay in the wilderness had tamed his eyes in the way that your own ability of sight was returning, albeit in a crude fashion. If your theory is true, you may still have a chance of survival. Squinting, you begin to retrace your steps, at the risk of alerting the enemy to your position.
Your opposite is also stirring. His shining eyeballs sweep the trees surrounding him. Could he have regained his vision? He checks again.
You don't seem to register. You are glad you kept your distance. You continue your retreat, hoping, praying for silence. You can see the edge of the trees. You accelerate.
Crack. The stranger's head whips around. You are shielded by a formation of trees, but now he must surely know of your presence. You can see him advancing, and break into a run.
He moves swiftly, and starts up his chainsaw. The machines screams drain out your own, its beat a metaphor for your own heart.
Metal slices through the flesh of another victim. The saw rips right through the body, and the tree topples to the ground.
The forester shakes flies out of his face, and resumes his routine.
