Where the sun came up there was no grass, just rock, bare and plain as rock can be. The light that filtered down into the valley, or perhaps a more accurate term for the place would be basin, touched upon enough verdant life that a bit of missing grass and moss up at the top didn't trouble it at all in the grand scheme of things. It did however trouble the robed figure that bent over, whisking at the ground with rich, tanned fingers, turning a duller shade of brown as they scratched. Nothing but dirt and rock remained up at the top, though years and years ago there had been flora practically overflowing out of the basin, threatening to spill forth in leafy waves upon the outside world wherever it touched it. Now a barren, brown rim separated one set of trees and plants from the other, the hot ground dissuading the climbing vines and the floating grass seeds from finding purchase on the steep rocky walls.
The cloaked figure sank down further, leaning to peer far below to the green canopy of trees that stretched out across the expanse of the basin, pushing up against the walls in some places even. A glint of a river pulled the robed figure's eyes sideways following its path as it lazily wound towards the very center of the forest where a small stream of smoke rose, tickling the sky like a long thin feather. It was too far away to resolve details, but the robed figure knew it must be from a campfire, set up early with the intent of cooking what supplies had been left in the campground.
Humans were hungry creatures, the figure had found in her life. Give them food and they tended to behave a bit better. Not to say that she or her kind were any different, really, it just so happened that food was less of an issue of nutrients and more of delicacy. Perhaps she would get to try some exotic foods on her trip even. Staying to watch and maybe poke around a bit in the upcoming fun would have delighted her, but it wasn't her place to interfere or spectate.
That was for them to keep as secrets or tell as enchanting tales afterwards, as she had done when she set up camp in the basin so long ago. It wasn't until the sun crested the sky, lighting up all the bare, stone walls that the robed figure turned and walked off into the woods on the top of the cliff, humming to herself. She would be back when the basin called to her, but for now there were things to do, some of which might even qualify as important.
Showing posts with label Garden of the Gods. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Garden of the Gods. Show all posts
Friday, August 16, 2013
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Garden of the Gods: Part 4
There was no pathway, and his new map was certainly not helpful in more than a general sense, so Roger started following the stream-bank. Everything was in the backpack now, besides the map. The map was in his hands less because it was useful and more because it was a very strange thing to puzzle over. It was either magic or sufficiently advanced technology to the point that he might as well be interacting with a magic map. Neither one made him keen on getting it wet. Every step or two he paused and glanced at the paper. It was slowly getting more detail around where he walked, sharpening the blurry treescape to show a little trickle of blue that seemed to be the stream. Poking at the paper didn't seem to do anything at all, much as he wished the map maker had taken a cue from touch-screen computing. No zoom feature that he could make out, no scrolling, and no waypoints besides the red X that marked his position, crawling forward as he walked to keep pace with his exploration of the river. It didn't take long for this to become boring. Folding it up and glancing at it every five minutes to make sure that the stream hadn't gone off course was enough. As a map, it really failed to do a good job, though he supposed if he walked around the whole place it might be a bit useful.
The scenery itself was more interesting than the possibilities of the map, however. It was a forest with a stream in the typical sense, leaves and dirt and trees and the murmur of water. There was another layer of something on top of it all as he kept walking, something he couldn't quite put a thought on until he stopped to peer into the shady places away from the jagged crack of sunlight above the stream. It was mostly silent. No animals besides the fish he'd seen in the pond, and the wind wasn't rustling branches and playing with the tall grass. The deserted feeling of the place sent a sharp chill down Roger's back as he started walking again. A place like this should have some life, surely. Animals were essential to a healthy ecosystem, and if there weren't any and it was still able to thrive, it would be more crowded with plants. It wasn't an empty looking forest in that respect, but the plants left room to walk around without pushing through bushes or squeezing between trees.
His map said he had made it about a third of the way to the campground by the time two or three hours passed. Keeping track of time by the sun's height was not his specialty, so he couldn't get an exact estimate. Clocks had ruined those senses throughout his years. The river had started to lilt off southward, so he was about to make his way into the darker forest proper. Some apprehension held him back for a moment, though. The stream made noise, and the noise was peaceful and natural. Away from that would be a pure silence and darkness. Well, not pure darkness, he could see small breaks in the leafy canopy that let shafts down intermittently in the deeper parts, but nothing like the bright cleft that the stream made through the swathe of green that his map assured him went on and on. Still, the sun itself was dropping lower, and he would rather not be alone in the forest if he could help it when it finally completed its descent. That thought propelled him on.
A minute and he couldn't hear the stream. Just a minute of walking, since the trees opened up away from each other. Less water, less trees it seemed. It almost felt like the trees were keeping their distance, trying their best to keep silent in peace, secluding their trunks while their branches wove themselves into a near-solid roof of dappled yellow-green. If Roger had to guess what type of trees they were, he would have said oak, though they wouldn't fit the pattern any other oak tree he had seen made in his mind, at least not exactly. The leaves were too large, the size of his face, and the trucks had a grey hue to them, darker near the top to a light grey at the bottom that approached white. In the midst of it, he heard a rustling above him. He looked up to see a bright white cat creature, more like a panther than the domestic cat, and ever so shimmery, like you would picture a unicorn soaked in oil to look like, constantly shifting in spots that light reflected off of, but otherwise the flat white that absorbed away the detail of the short hair.
"No, don't mind me, I'm just here to spectate, you see."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Mmmm, yes, well, you may have my pardon." It was certainly a cat, by the way that it talked, thought Roger, though he hadn't heard a cat talk before.
"What are you spectating, though?"
"The competition, of course. Nothing else to watch here anymore. You're one of the contestants, I presume? You must be, she doesn't let others in. A bit early, though."
"I honestly have no clue what this is about, so anything you could say would be helpful." Roger wasn't sure how he had so casually started talking to a cat, but talking was preferable to being eaten. Wild cats of that size were supposed to be hunters, and he certinly hadn't seen anything else that it could eat.
"Dishonsetly, I would love to help you. Alas, I can't be favoring one of you before I've seen all the rest, I'm afraid. What if there were a more. . interesting fellow who showed up a bit later." He noticed the cat's tail lazily swinging back and forth behind it, partially obscured by the leaves and branches. He was having a hard time craning his neck up to get a good look at the cat. "You are right though, everything I say is just going to help you. . ."
"Why not tell everyone the same thing so as to make it fair then?" It would be about as annoyingly useless as the map if the first talking thing he found in magic-land happened to tell him nothing at all. He certainly hadn't learned anything yet.
"Oh, but that would be such an effort. All of you most certainly won't come in through the waterfall, not with the way things tend to shift here. And my tree won't be right in the way of the next one's path thanks to that. No, I think I'll just watch." The cat was worse than the map, he decided. At least the map gave him some general direction.
"Well, I'd best be off, then."
"Yes, well, if you do pass by again, and you aren't one of the more. . .boring ones, I'll be happy to not eat you." He finally caught sight of the cat's eyes, peering down at him. They were as white as the cat's fur, without the oily shimmer, devoid of any color besides white, in fact.
"That would be lovely." Roger was walking slightly faster than when he'd first heard the cat. And by slightly it averaged to about double the speed.
"Mmm, Yes. I hope the next few are going to be more entertaining, what with her telling me I can't eat all of you."
A half hour later and Roger was surprised to find that he was almost at the campground in the hurry he'd obtained after his meeting. Maybe the cat was the reason for the lack of animals in that part of the woods. Catching sight of a stream, most likely the same one, on an intersection course with his path, he was sad he didn't take the detour with it.
The scenery itself was more interesting than the possibilities of the map, however. It was a forest with a stream in the typical sense, leaves and dirt and trees and the murmur of water. There was another layer of something on top of it all as he kept walking, something he couldn't quite put a thought on until he stopped to peer into the shady places away from the jagged crack of sunlight above the stream. It was mostly silent. No animals besides the fish he'd seen in the pond, and the wind wasn't rustling branches and playing with the tall grass. The deserted feeling of the place sent a sharp chill down Roger's back as he started walking again. A place like this should have some life, surely. Animals were essential to a healthy ecosystem, and if there weren't any and it was still able to thrive, it would be more crowded with plants. It wasn't an empty looking forest in that respect, but the plants left room to walk around without pushing through bushes or squeezing between trees.
His map said he had made it about a third of the way to the campground by the time two or three hours passed. Keeping track of time by the sun's height was not his specialty, so he couldn't get an exact estimate. Clocks had ruined those senses throughout his years. The river had started to lilt off southward, so he was about to make his way into the darker forest proper. Some apprehension held him back for a moment, though. The stream made noise, and the noise was peaceful and natural. Away from that would be a pure silence and darkness. Well, not pure darkness, he could see small breaks in the leafy canopy that let shafts down intermittently in the deeper parts, but nothing like the bright cleft that the stream made through the swathe of green that his map assured him went on and on. Still, the sun itself was dropping lower, and he would rather not be alone in the forest if he could help it when it finally completed its descent. That thought propelled him on.
A minute and he couldn't hear the stream. Just a minute of walking, since the trees opened up away from each other. Less water, less trees it seemed. It almost felt like the trees were keeping their distance, trying their best to keep silent in peace, secluding their trunks while their branches wove themselves into a near-solid roof of dappled yellow-green. If Roger had to guess what type of trees they were, he would have said oak, though they wouldn't fit the pattern any other oak tree he had seen made in his mind, at least not exactly. The leaves were too large, the size of his face, and the trucks had a grey hue to them, darker near the top to a light grey at the bottom that approached white. In the midst of it, he heard a rustling above him. He looked up to see a bright white cat creature, more like a panther than the domestic cat, and ever so shimmery, like you would picture a unicorn soaked in oil to look like, constantly shifting in spots that light reflected off of, but otherwise the flat white that absorbed away the detail of the short hair.
"No, don't mind me, I'm just here to spectate, you see."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Mmmm, yes, well, you may have my pardon." It was certainly a cat, by the way that it talked, thought Roger, though he hadn't heard a cat talk before.
"What are you spectating, though?"
"The competition, of course. Nothing else to watch here anymore. You're one of the contestants, I presume? You must be, she doesn't let others in. A bit early, though."
"I honestly have no clue what this is about, so anything you could say would be helpful." Roger wasn't sure how he had so casually started talking to a cat, but talking was preferable to being eaten. Wild cats of that size were supposed to be hunters, and he certinly hadn't seen anything else that it could eat.
"Dishonsetly, I would love to help you. Alas, I can't be favoring one of you before I've seen all the rest, I'm afraid. What if there were a more. . interesting fellow who showed up a bit later." He noticed the cat's tail lazily swinging back and forth behind it, partially obscured by the leaves and branches. He was having a hard time craning his neck up to get a good look at the cat. "You are right though, everything I say is just going to help you. . ."
"Why not tell everyone the same thing so as to make it fair then?" It would be about as annoyingly useless as the map if the first talking thing he found in magic-land happened to tell him nothing at all. He certainly hadn't learned anything yet.
"Oh, but that would be such an effort. All of you most certainly won't come in through the waterfall, not with the way things tend to shift here. And my tree won't be right in the way of the next one's path thanks to that. No, I think I'll just watch." The cat was worse than the map, he decided. At least the map gave him some general direction.
"Well, I'd best be off, then."
"Yes, well, if you do pass by again, and you aren't one of the more. . .boring ones, I'll be happy to not eat you." He finally caught sight of the cat's eyes, peering down at him. They were as white as the cat's fur, without the oily shimmer, devoid of any color besides white, in fact.
"That would be lovely." Roger was walking slightly faster than when he'd first heard the cat. And by slightly it averaged to about double the speed.
"Mmm, Yes. I hope the next few are going to be more entertaining, what with her telling me I can't eat all of you."
A half hour later and Roger was surprised to find that he was almost at the campground in the hurry he'd obtained after his meeting. Maybe the cat was the reason for the lack of animals in that part of the woods. Catching sight of a stream, most likely the same one, on an intersection course with his path, he was sad he didn't take the detour with it.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Garden of the Gods: Part 3
The pool was clear, letting in the sun's rays down to the slippery stones that sat at its bottom. A small current pulled Roger back towards the water-pillar, through a swarm of bright yellow fish that split apart and reformed into a school behind him. It was silent under the water, the deep pool insulating his ears from the noise of the water splashing off rocks as it ignored all laws of nature in its ascent of the cliff. The noise came back as he breached the surface, along with the chirps of birds from the woods surrounding. A few strokes brought him to the shore where he collapsed onto his back.
Immediately he regretted his decision and rolled onto his stomach, face full of grass and soaked for the second time that day. It was a sunny patch at least, so his shirt and shorts would dry. It was normal ground, from what he could see. Normal grass. The water felt the same as most water did. The fish were bright colored, but they weren't that odd looking from what he'd seen. And yet the water went up. Roger had to sit up and actually look at the cliff face to see it again. Seeing is believing, he thought to himself, but he kept staring.
The bacon in his Winnebago seemed very far off at that moment, and his stomach was quick to point it out. Still, there wasn't much he could do. Maybe touching was believing, actually. Walking over to the fantastic phenomena, he affirmed the lack of any real handholds or hidden paths back up in the stream water or the nearby vicinity. He stretched his hand out into the flow, but it wasn't strong enough to lift his arm, much less his whole body, not that he would risk it with the way it bounced off the rocks in a spray of mist that settled in a sparkling halo around the pillar of water. he couldn't do much about hunger, but dipping his head into the vertical stream he managed to quench his thirst. If he was lost, and the answer had to be that he was, considering the lack of anything like this on maps that he had seen, he might have to find food of his own, the fish perhaps. Well, maybe. They could be poisonous he supposed. That was what bright colors meant, right? And if they lived in the big open pool where birds should have easily gotten a free meal...better not to risk it. So that left exploration as the next best option. Sticking his tongue out at his reflection in the water pillar he turned back towards the streams entrance to the pool.
It took a minute to walk around the side, it being on the exact opposite shore, and when he got there he made a rather pleasant discovery. Dry, unattended, obviously not accounted for clothes were a warm, fuzzy blessing from beyond. They were a plain, white t-shirt and some blue jeans, no labels, and they looked like they would fit him. They were folded neatly atop a green bath towel, also folded, which itself sat atop a slightly curved rock that was just the right height to sit on and think. He did think, some about the clothes, and some about the backpack that was leaning against the rock. No brand name on that either. His clothes hung over a tree branch close by, soaking up the sunlight with the towel.
He hadn't opened the backpack. He wasn't sure he wanted to open the backpack. The clothes fit well. They fit like they'd been tailored for him. They were either a very very unlikely magical coincidence, or there was something fishy going on. Which brought him to the stranger who he had hosted last night as the impetus of all this. If he sat really still, he could feel a bit of the terror, the dread down deep inside of him, just sitting there like a lead marble. It wasn't usual, and even if he wasn't the cause, he was probably related. What are the odds that You go crazy in the woods, hit your head, and then make your way to a place where water doesn't obey gravity? Well, the crazy part sometimes happened. Not that badly though. Nothing to make him that scared had happened in a long time, and certainly nothing that made him that scared and that active. Maybe he was being kidnapped by aliens, and this was their little terrarium where they were waiting to see how long he would wander around and if he would try to get out. Maybe he had stumbled through into an alternate dimension where everything he thought was real was a lie. Maybe things were still normal and he had just hit his head harder than he thought. His back was still sore from the water impact though. Maybe there was bacon in the backpack.
His gaze alighted on the zipper. Would whoever put this here stuff it with some unspeakable evil after giving him new clothes and a towel? Well, maybe. Odds were against it, hopefully, and if they weren't, he'd at least know what type of place he was stuck in when he started running for his life. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing. So he pulled it between his legs and opened it. No unspeakable evil popped out. No smell of bacon either, though that may have been a bit too wishful thinking. Some sandwiches though. Looked like salami and swiss through the plastic baggy. Under those was what looked like a remote control, some rope, a knife, halfway between an army combat knife and a steak knife, a folded up map, and a note. First he ate the sandwiches, all three of them. If he cared to speculate, he would say that falling off things burnt a bunch of calories, along with being cold and walking around for half the day without breakfast. Not the best sandwiches he had tasted, honestly. The mayo was warmed up too much, and they could have used some tomato, but they were food.
The note read as follows.
"Dear Sir,
You, as a contact of Mr. J. Carmillion, participant in the upcoming event to take place in this Garden" Roger was not sure why garden was capitalized, or if this place was really a garden at all, "have been chosen to accompany and assist him in his upcoming test for the greater good of the realm.
Good Luck,
M."
This wasn't exactly helpful, he thought. He didn't even know a Mr. J. Carmillion. So that left two obvious options: the writer had in fact nabbed the wrong person to participate, or that he hadn't seen the last of the stranger. At this point, he was inclined to hope for a third option. Maybe a prank by some vagabond, stuffing some drugs into his stew earlier that night. Unlikely though, he tended to keep a close watch on his cooking pot. The map then? Maybe he could find out where he actually was.
It unfolded into an 18 inch square filled with a bunch of green, and some specks of brown, mostly. A small aerial view of the pool that was a good deal more useful than the rest of the map was along the right border of the map, complete with a red X labeled "you are here." It was not very big at all in comparison to the rest of the blurry map.
Perhaps it was water damaged? Nobody could think that this thing would be useful at. . .oh hello there. Roger blinked. The center of the map had resolved focus a bit to reveal a brown patch that some invisible hand helpfully labeled "campground." Well, at least he had a direction to go in. This would be a long walk, and from the scale, it might take until sundown. Maybe there would be bacon there, though?
Immediately he regretted his decision and rolled onto his stomach, face full of grass and soaked for the second time that day. It was a sunny patch at least, so his shirt and shorts would dry. It was normal ground, from what he could see. Normal grass. The water felt the same as most water did. The fish were bright colored, but they weren't that odd looking from what he'd seen. And yet the water went up. Roger had to sit up and actually look at the cliff face to see it again. Seeing is believing, he thought to himself, but he kept staring.
The bacon in his Winnebago seemed very far off at that moment, and his stomach was quick to point it out. Still, there wasn't much he could do. Maybe touching was believing, actually. Walking over to the fantastic phenomena, he affirmed the lack of any real handholds or hidden paths back up in the stream water or the nearby vicinity. He stretched his hand out into the flow, but it wasn't strong enough to lift his arm, much less his whole body, not that he would risk it with the way it bounced off the rocks in a spray of mist that settled in a sparkling halo around the pillar of water. he couldn't do much about hunger, but dipping his head into the vertical stream he managed to quench his thirst. If he was lost, and the answer had to be that he was, considering the lack of anything like this on maps that he had seen, he might have to find food of his own, the fish perhaps. Well, maybe. They could be poisonous he supposed. That was what bright colors meant, right? And if they lived in the big open pool where birds should have easily gotten a free meal...better not to risk it. So that left exploration as the next best option. Sticking his tongue out at his reflection in the water pillar he turned back towards the streams entrance to the pool.
It took a minute to walk around the side, it being on the exact opposite shore, and when he got there he made a rather pleasant discovery. Dry, unattended, obviously not accounted for clothes were a warm, fuzzy blessing from beyond. They were a plain, white t-shirt and some blue jeans, no labels, and they looked like they would fit him. They were folded neatly atop a green bath towel, also folded, which itself sat atop a slightly curved rock that was just the right height to sit on and think. He did think, some about the clothes, and some about the backpack that was leaning against the rock. No brand name on that either. His clothes hung over a tree branch close by, soaking up the sunlight with the towel.
He hadn't opened the backpack. He wasn't sure he wanted to open the backpack. The clothes fit well. They fit like they'd been tailored for him. They were either a very very unlikely magical coincidence, or there was something fishy going on. Which brought him to the stranger who he had hosted last night as the impetus of all this. If he sat really still, he could feel a bit of the terror, the dread down deep inside of him, just sitting there like a lead marble. It wasn't usual, and even if he wasn't the cause, he was probably related. What are the odds that You go crazy in the woods, hit your head, and then make your way to a place where water doesn't obey gravity? Well, the crazy part sometimes happened. Not that badly though. Nothing to make him that scared had happened in a long time, and certainly nothing that made him that scared and that active. Maybe he was being kidnapped by aliens, and this was their little terrarium where they were waiting to see how long he would wander around and if he would try to get out. Maybe he had stumbled through into an alternate dimension where everything he thought was real was a lie. Maybe things were still normal and he had just hit his head harder than he thought. His back was still sore from the water impact though. Maybe there was bacon in the backpack.
His gaze alighted on the zipper. Would whoever put this here stuff it with some unspeakable evil after giving him new clothes and a towel? Well, maybe. Odds were against it, hopefully, and if they weren't, he'd at least know what type of place he was stuck in when he started running for his life. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing. So he pulled it between his legs and opened it. No unspeakable evil popped out. No smell of bacon either, though that may have been a bit too wishful thinking. Some sandwiches though. Looked like salami and swiss through the plastic baggy. Under those was what looked like a remote control, some rope, a knife, halfway between an army combat knife and a steak knife, a folded up map, and a note. First he ate the sandwiches, all three of them. If he cared to speculate, he would say that falling off things burnt a bunch of calories, along with being cold and walking around for half the day without breakfast. Not the best sandwiches he had tasted, honestly. The mayo was warmed up too much, and they could have used some tomato, but they were food.
The note read as follows.
"Dear Sir,
You, as a contact of Mr. J. Carmillion, participant in the upcoming event to take place in this Garden" Roger was not sure why garden was capitalized, or if this place was really a garden at all, "have been chosen to accompany and assist him in his upcoming test for the greater good of the realm.
Good Luck,
M."
This wasn't exactly helpful, he thought. He didn't even know a Mr. J. Carmillion. So that left two obvious options: the writer had in fact nabbed the wrong person to participate, or that he hadn't seen the last of the stranger. At this point, he was inclined to hope for a third option. Maybe a prank by some vagabond, stuffing some drugs into his stew earlier that night. Unlikely though, he tended to keep a close watch on his cooking pot. The map then? Maybe he could find out where he actually was.
It unfolded into an 18 inch square filled with a bunch of green, and some specks of brown, mostly. A small aerial view of the pool that was a good deal more useful than the rest of the map was along the right border of the map, complete with a red X labeled "you are here." It was not very big at all in comparison to the rest of the blurry map.
Perhaps it was water damaged? Nobody could think that this thing would be useful at. . .oh hello there. Roger blinked. The center of the map had resolved focus a bit to reveal a brown patch that some invisible hand helpfully labeled "campground." Well, at least he had a direction to go in. This would be a long walk, and from the scale, it might take until sundown. Maybe there would be bacon there, though?
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Garden of the Gods: Part 2
There was a bird, somewhere up above him, tweeting away on a rock or in a tree just loud enough that Roger registered the animal. He might have felt the cold more, at first, and heard the stream running its course over and around the smooth river rocks much like the ones pressing into his belly. The bird was more real though, more cutting in the tone he heard lying there with his eyes closed. It was peaceful, tranquil, and the first living thing that he had encountered since the man at his campfire. It was the realization that he was not filled with the deepest dread his body had ever had the misfortune to hold. Just lying there was enough for him as the bird sang, the chill of the water less unbearable than the thought that moving an inch would set it back at his heels, nipping away at his sanity. Sunlight crept into the gully that the stream ran through, touching on his back to let him know that it was there, and finally the bird flitted away, leaving only the stream and the cold.
As apprehensive as Roger was, the calm stayed behind, even as he sat up, pulling his face from the dusty stones on the riverbank and opening his eyes on his resting place. It was an empty gully, not much in the way of larger plants, only little weeds poking out of gaps in the stone, some dangling from the steep walls that stretched up to where he had undoubtedly fallen. he took a moment to look around, eventually turning his gaze to the stream and catching a reflection of his water-drenched form. It was messy, sure, little bits of plant and sediment clutching at his t-shirt and shorts, poking out from the curls of his drying hair. The thing it wasn't was bloody, which puzzled him a bit. He checked the back of his head and under his clothes and was not able to find so much as a scratch. Skyward, his fall should have done more than that, even if he had washed downstream for a while, the cliff wall staying steep and tall for as far as he could peer down the relatively straight meanderings that the stream had carved. He wasn't sore, though that might have been the numbness the water had granted him. Roger had heard of hypothermia, but he wasn't quite able to remember the signs that it was happening. Just to be safe he disrobed and squeezed as much water out of his clothes as possible, hoping they would dry the rest of the way on his walk.
The walk was upstream for the purpose of bacon. The was some back in his Winnebago, just inside the fridge he had and combined with the pan that was lying on his bed last he checked, he would have breakfast, for he was hungry. Thus resolved, and with a quick look around, he began the easy journey beside the stream. If he hadn't drawn blood on anything, the fall must have been shorter than he remembered, exaggerated in his mind, and if he found the place he could likely climb back up and start making his way back to the road. His surety in the notion waned as the sun rose higher and the cliffs stayed higher still, looking down at him from heights that looked injurious, if not deadly.
An hour of walking and Roger was starting to debate which would be the greater miracle, not drowning on his entire float down to where he beached, or falling from such a height and not breaking anything. He was fairly sure about the not breaking anything part. He had stopped to check his limbs and ribs a few times just to be sure, but none of them was bending the wrong way, and as the sun warmed him and dried his clothes he didn't feel pain over and beyond the poke of his finger when he probed for injuries with confused disbelief. That he hadn't drowned, well, the pokes and a pinch at some point meant that he could feel, and he wanted the bacon more than brains, so he was fairly sure he was alive. It could be the afterlife, he supposed, but what kind of afterlife wakes you up soaking wet in a cold stream in the middle of nowhere? From what he was custom to believing, there would have been a bit more fanfare if something like that had happened.
So roger kept on walking as the sun rose, not sure exactly what to think, but rather amused with his own confusion. A net positive, he felt, though he wasn't sure exactly how since he was still hungry and without bacon. The stream bed, if a little barren, had a certain charm to it. Clear water hustling by towards the sun calmed him with its low mumble, seeming to entreat him to really look at the plants and the rocks and the sky, and, if he wouldn't think it vain of the stream, to even take a look at the water as it passed. Roger wasn't crazy, it was more like he was good at inventing character in things. Overactive imagination that on many an occasion had terrified him at least had the decency to drop him some enjoyable thoughts as he walked around in nature.
Around when Roger was noticing his shadow had shrunk down to cower under him, he heard the waterfall. Well, he heard the sound of a waterfall. A small waterfall. Not a large thing, crashing about with loads of white water, but enough of a flow to hit the ear from relatively close by. It was a sound hat he felt confident enough to say came from his stream, and perhaps from a waterfall that was around a small jog in the stream just up ahead. Putting a little more speed into his legs, Roger hurried forward to see it, rounding a bend in the rocks. At this point he felt a familiar, if strange sensation. He was falling. It was a long fall. Looking around, he saw a great big forest down below him, nice and green and filled with trees, a bit of a stream coming out of it to make a pool that happened to be under where he was dropping through space. As his momentum twisted him around, for this was a rather large drop, he saw the waterfall he had heard. Well, waterfall-sound creator. The water was falling up, rising as it were, hitting stones that protruded from a rocky cliff and eventually making a sharp turn to disappear over the edge that he had previously been standing upon as he rounded the corner. Roger hit the water on his back. It hurt, and he was seriously reconsidering his afterlife theory.
As apprehensive as Roger was, the calm stayed behind, even as he sat up, pulling his face from the dusty stones on the riverbank and opening his eyes on his resting place. It was an empty gully, not much in the way of larger plants, only little weeds poking out of gaps in the stone, some dangling from the steep walls that stretched up to where he had undoubtedly fallen. he took a moment to look around, eventually turning his gaze to the stream and catching a reflection of his water-drenched form. It was messy, sure, little bits of plant and sediment clutching at his t-shirt and shorts, poking out from the curls of his drying hair. The thing it wasn't was bloody, which puzzled him a bit. He checked the back of his head and under his clothes and was not able to find so much as a scratch. Skyward, his fall should have done more than that, even if he had washed downstream for a while, the cliff wall staying steep and tall for as far as he could peer down the relatively straight meanderings that the stream had carved. He wasn't sore, though that might have been the numbness the water had granted him. Roger had heard of hypothermia, but he wasn't quite able to remember the signs that it was happening. Just to be safe he disrobed and squeezed as much water out of his clothes as possible, hoping they would dry the rest of the way on his walk.
The walk was upstream for the purpose of bacon. The was some back in his Winnebago, just inside the fridge he had and combined with the pan that was lying on his bed last he checked, he would have breakfast, for he was hungry. Thus resolved, and with a quick look around, he began the easy journey beside the stream. If he hadn't drawn blood on anything, the fall must have been shorter than he remembered, exaggerated in his mind, and if he found the place he could likely climb back up and start making his way back to the road. His surety in the notion waned as the sun rose higher and the cliffs stayed higher still, looking down at him from heights that looked injurious, if not deadly.
An hour of walking and Roger was starting to debate which would be the greater miracle, not drowning on his entire float down to where he beached, or falling from such a height and not breaking anything. He was fairly sure about the not breaking anything part. He had stopped to check his limbs and ribs a few times just to be sure, but none of them was bending the wrong way, and as the sun warmed him and dried his clothes he didn't feel pain over and beyond the poke of his finger when he probed for injuries with confused disbelief. That he hadn't drowned, well, the pokes and a pinch at some point meant that he could feel, and he wanted the bacon more than brains, so he was fairly sure he was alive. It could be the afterlife, he supposed, but what kind of afterlife wakes you up soaking wet in a cold stream in the middle of nowhere? From what he was custom to believing, there would have been a bit more fanfare if something like that had happened.
So roger kept on walking as the sun rose, not sure exactly what to think, but rather amused with his own confusion. A net positive, he felt, though he wasn't sure exactly how since he was still hungry and without bacon. The stream bed, if a little barren, had a certain charm to it. Clear water hustling by towards the sun calmed him with its low mumble, seeming to entreat him to really look at the plants and the rocks and the sky, and, if he wouldn't think it vain of the stream, to even take a look at the water as it passed. Roger wasn't crazy, it was more like he was good at inventing character in things. Overactive imagination that on many an occasion had terrified him at least had the decency to drop him some enjoyable thoughts as he walked around in nature.
Around when Roger was noticing his shadow had shrunk down to cower under him, he heard the waterfall. Well, he heard the sound of a waterfall. A small waterfall. Not a large thing, crashing about with loads of white water, but enough of a flow to hit the ear from relatively close by. It was a sound hat he felt confident enough to say came from his stream, and perhaps from a waterfall that was around a small jog in the stream just up ahead. Putting a little more speed into his legs, Roger hurried forward to see it, rounding a bend in the rocks. At this point he felt a familiar, if strange sensation. He was falling. It was a long fall. Looking around, he saw a great big forest down below him, nice and green and filled with trees, a bit of a stream coming out of it to make a pool that happened to be under where he was dropping through space. As his momentum twisted him around, for this was a rather large drop, he saw the waterfall he had heard. Well, waterfall-sound creator. The water was falling up, rising as it were, hitting stones that protruded from a rocky cliff and eventually making a sharp turn to disappear over the edge that he had previously been standing upon as he rounded the corner. Roger hit the water on his back. It hurt, and he was seriously reconsidering his afterlife theory.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Garden of the Gods: Part 1
Roger sat, staring at the flames for a while. He'd been up all night, but he didn't feel it. The touch of the sun on his back only made him restless. The fire pit was down to one log, bravely sputtering in the dawn air, white ashes a testament to its former heat. Inside his Winnebago, back toward the road there was food for breakfast, but Roger didn't make a move to get up yet. Shifting his gaze to the side, he looked at the fallen tree stump where his visitor had sat last night.
It had been abnormal, in a way. Nothing about the man himself had surprised Roger, but the feeling in the air that things were not quite right afterwards had kept him up. As he had talked with him, Andrew he had been called, a growing sense of panic had grown inside him, mentally yelling at him to run away, to flee the area, to douse the flames and set off into the forest. Even after his visitor had departed hours earlier, wandering off into the darkness, Roger still sat frozen, resisting the pounding of his heart. It wasn't the first time he had felt an urge to leave a place, spending his money that had at one time been for college on the Winnebago and driving off, away from home. This time held a different tone of urgency though. Instead of his own inner voice that couldn't stand the life he was living, buckling under the pressure of society, he could feel the otherness in the voice that plagued him this night. It felt like the strange man who had showed up to share his fire, warming up against the cold, autumn night before wandering off. It wasn't the same voice, just a feeling. The man had been pleasant, charming, entertaining in his affect.
The shakes in Rogers hands worsened as he thought back to it. He needed to leave, to get away, to shake off the presence that was haunting him. Maybe a short stroll would do it, giving in enough to throw off the sense of dread that had gotten hold of him. Maybe it wouldn't be like the Winnebago, one step of fear that he never had the courage to come back from, to face them again after stepping out that front door two years ago. He headed over to the water spout by the road, filling a bucket and dousing the flames before he did anything else, letting the plastic bucket fall to the wayside next to the rock he had been sitting on before setting his sights on the forest in front of him.
It wasn't a trail, but it felt like the right way to go. He stepped forward, brushing a branch out of his way and staring deeper into the morning shadows of the woods. The dread spiked behind him and he broke into a jog, barely noticing the ground sloping up as he ran. He was out of shape from his driving, living on cheap pasta and what he could get from his shows when he hit a city. Roger felt his breath giving way to gasps, stopping to lean on a tree before looking back. The forest was all the same, dark and cold away from the campfire, a feeling of dread still emanating from that direction, confirming it to be the way back. Roger walked some more, keeping the feeling behind him, wondering if it would go away and leave him lost, or stay there and drive him away from the campsite.
He didn't notice the ledge. He didn't register the feeling of falling until the ground whizzed by his face and his stomach finally transmitted that lifting sensation that always happens. He didn't realize how screwed he was until he saw the bright light of the sun flashing off a river from below him. He didn't remember anything until he heard the burble of water in his ears and felt the cold, chilly wetness that soaked him from behind closed eyelids, unaware of how much time had passed.
It had been abnormal, in a way. Nothing about the man himself had surprised Roger, but the feeling in the air that things were not quite right afterwards had kept him up. As he had talked with him, Andrew he had been called, a growing sense of panic had grown inside him, mentally yelling at him to run away, to flee the area, to douse the flames and set off into the forest. Even after his visitor had departed hours earlier, wandering off into the darkness, Roger still sat frozen, resisting the pounding of his heart. It wasn't the first time he had felt an urge to leave a place, spending his money that had at one time been for college on the Winnebago and driving off, away from home. This time held a different tone of urgency though. Instead of his own inner voice that couldn't stand the life he was living, buckling under the pressure of society, he could feel the otherness in the voice that plagued him this night. It felt like the strange man who had showed up to share his fire, warming up against the cold, autumn night before wandering off. It wasn't the same voice, just a feeling. The man had been pleasant, charming, entertaining in his affect.
The shakes in Rogers hands worsened as he thought back to it. He needed to leave, to get away, to shake off the presence that was haunting him. Maybe a short stroll would do it, giving in enough to throw off the sense of dread that had gotten hold of him. Maybe it wouldn't be like the Winnebago, one step of fear that he never had the courage to come back from, to face them again after stepping out that front door two years ago. He headed over to the water spout by the road, filling a bucket and dousing the flames before he did anything else, letting the plastic bucket fall to the wayside next to the rock he had been sitting on before setting his sights on the forest in front of him.
It wasn't a trail, but it felt like the right way to go. He stepped forward, brushing a branch out of his way and staring deeper into the morning shadows of the woods. The dread spiked behind him and he broke into a jog, barely noticing the ground sloping up as he ran. He was out of shape from his driving, living on cheap pasta and what he could get from his shows when he hit a city. Roger felt his breath giving way to gasps, stopping to lean on a tree before looking back. The forest was all the same, dark and cold away from the campfire, a feeling of dread still emanating from that direction, confirming it to be the way back. Roger walked some more, keeping the feeling behind him, wondering if it would go away and leave him lost, or stay there and drive him away from the campsite.
He didn't notice the ledge. He didn't register the feeling of falling until the ground whizzed by his face and his stomach finally transmitted that lifting sensation that always happens. He didn't realize how screwed he was until he saw the bright light of the sun flashing off a river from below him. He didn't remember anything until he heard the burble of water in his ears and felt the cold, chilly wetness that soaked him from behind closed eyelids, unaware of how much time had passed.
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