Magical realism?
‘She crawled on her knees through the thicket. Prickles began nibbling at her clothes, to be replaced by the unkind tug of cluster of sharp twigs. Across her back, a waft of air caused her to turn and she saw the edge of her jacket caught on a black thorn, lifting away from her as she crawled forward. She tried to reach back to slash at the branch, but in moving her arm another thorn dragged at her sleeve, piercing the skin beneath. She thought she heard a sound, a hissing – some wretched creature bent on enjoying her misfortune. She could imagine the basilisk eyes and the sinuous body just staring, waiting. To drag her away to a lair where it would send her into some deadly sleep and then when its fangs had pierced her skin, to turn her into a creature like itself. She couldn’t retreat, the branches were converging and twisting to form a fedge-like thicket. But she would not be trapped, could not be trapped – there was too much at stake. She thrust against the thorn in her arm, feeling it rip through her skin and she bit her lip at the pain, watching the bright red blood pool drop by drop near her knee. She thrust with her small weapon again, slashing a thick bract, then another, each time inching forward through the dirt . . .’