Excerpt: Perspective (working title)

I sat there, looking at the remarkably unremarkably mountain. It was not exceptionally big, but it was not exceptionally small either. It was simply mountain – sized. It was not a remarkable color. There was a spattering of trees that dusted its surface, interspersed just enough to not be remarkable in any way. It was a dull brown color. Not dull gray, which is clearly an unusual color for a mountain, nor deep purple, nor brilliant brown. It looked as if the entire surface, except of course the spattering of trees, was coated in a light layer of dust. There was just enough wildlife crawling over the mountain so that it looked alive, but not teaming with life. And as I sat there, staring at the mountain, I wondered why, on earth, anyone would want to make this their hideout.
It made a certain sense, I suppose. You would not want your enemy to find it, and generally people flock toward the more remarkable landmarks. But that was for a reason. Hiding out here would give you no edge, no bragging rights. One person would say, my hideout has a great view of the ocean. Another could say, mine is on a hill that, when the sun is setting, glows a rainbow of colors. But this mountain? What could anyone say about it? My hideout is a completely unremarkable mountain in the middle of nowhere. But not far enough in the middle of nowhere to be worth mentioning.
Sighing, I picked up my bag. It wasn’t so much a bag, really, but all the necessary provisions I would need, tied up in a completely ordinary handkerchief, tied on the end of a long wooden stick. How incredibly cliché. It was a dumb game anyway, and I was really only playing because Drea would be heartbroken if I did not. Little sisters. The things I sacrifice for her. Namely, time. And a lot of it.
For some unknown reason, this game was vastly important to her. She could not go a single day without thinking of it, making plans for it, or any other such thing. It seemed to dictate her life. At times I became worried at how much time she spent consumed with this game, that, to be quite honest, was just that. A game. It’s like people who spend their entire lives watching football. It’s one thing to dedicate your life to playing sports. At least you have an income and can afford life. But when you spend every free moment watching sports game, live or recorded, or making preparations for the next “big game” you are going to watch – I mean, come on. That’s just pathetic. And that is exactly what I felt like Drea was doing with this game of hers. It is a game! Why waste your life on something so inconsequential? I still have no idea how she can afford to spend so much time on it. She does not have a job, and yet she manages to survive on a daily basis, with plenty of food and water, and enough extra money to buy a new book almost every week. She is incredibly into reading. Almost as much as she is into the game.
Putting aside my judgments of what I was about to do, I started walking toward the mountain. She had stressed to me the importance of walking to the mountain, and not driving, or skateboarding, or riding a bike, or roller - blading. She had added other methods I was to not take, but they were all so absurd I quickly forgot them.
I was wearing a stuffy, hot black cloak, which dragged on the ground, staining the bottom of the velvety cloth forever a dull shade of brown. Under the cloak was a maroon dress, with a fancy corset which restricted my breathing to a hoarse struggle for air. I imagined I would have looked perfect in an imaginary fantasy world, say, Middle Earth, or any such place. Maybe even in renaissance times I could have pulled it off. But in the year 2008, in the United States, I looked like I was about to go trick or treating. However, I cannot deny the remarkable beauty of the maroon dress. It stood out against the unremarkable landscape, making me feel very out in the open and vulnerable. It went to the floor, but managed not to drag in the dirt. It laced up in the front, just revealing the black satin corset underneath. It had short sleeves (thank goodness, it was hot enough in the desert in a black velvet cloak), with a black ribbon weaving in and out around the edge of the sleeve. A matching black ribbon weaved in and out around the bottom, and also just under my bosom, making me feel, for the first time in my life, like I had a chest. From that line, the dress flowed out, accentuating my hips. My black flats just poked out from under the dress as I walked. Needless to say, the knapsack over my shoulder did not quite fit with the rest of my apparel. I looked like Jasmine running away from the castle: fancy, with a random escape bag. I envied her clothes, which allowed her to both breath and not die of heatstroke.
I walked the hundred yards I was informed I must walk, stopping at a gnarly olive tree. It fit the landscape perfectly in its ordinariness. I pulled a simple dagger from a sheath I had strapped to my leg (again, following the rules of my sister) and carved a short, four letter word into the tree: sago. I made a mental note to ask Drea why the “password,” as it were, was “sago.” Having carved the short word into the tree, I continued walking toward the mountain, unsure where exactly to go from there. She had told me to just walk forward and I would know what to do, but unless any inspiration hit soon, I’d be rock climbing.

Not a good stopping point, but I don't want to get into the next scene yet. Let me know what you think!