Thursday, April 19, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
At The Wall
It was vast. It reached far into the sky. A kilometer? A mile?
He was relieved that it wasn’t smooth, like Hoover Dam. Rather, it was constructed of huge stones, cemented together. This meant there were lots of handholds and footholds. He could climb it.
He rested for a time, had a long drink of cable-drip, and then began his ascent. It went fast. The Wall was easy to climb. It took him no more than (he guessed) a day or so. Before he knew it, he reached the summit, and heaved himself over the edge.
The top of the Wall was broad and flat. He guessed it was over a hundred meters from the edge he’d just crossed to the far side. He glanced right and left. On the Wall, every few kilometers, there were huge, black metal towers. It was from these, of course, that the cables came that stretched out over the field of the dead, and from which the claws hung. He watched as one claw-scoop came up from the field to a tower, then, following the black cable, moved away from view.
He walked to the other edge of the Wall. When he arrived, he forced himself to look over the edge . . . then reeled back, fighting vertigo and nausea. On the other side was a vast, vast, space. The Wall must be a hundred kilometers from top to bottom.
Slowly, he regained control of himself and crawled on his stomach to the edge. He could see cables from the towers carrying scoops with their grisly cargos toward the depths below. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that, down there, on the plains, was an intricate network of canals or waterways. These stretched out like a maze for almost as far as he could see. Sometimes parallel, sometimes converging, the waterways all ran toward a single point, far in the distance.
He thought, if he strained, he could just make out some sort of huge structure there, black and ominous, where the waters became one.
He was relieved that it wasn’t smooth, like Hoover Dam. Rather, it was constructed of huge stones, cemented together. This meant there were lots of handholds and footholds. He could climb it.
He rested for a time, had a long drink of cable-drip, and then began his ascent. It went fast. The Wall was easy to climb. It took him no more than (he guessed) a day or so. Before he knew it, he reached the summit, and heaved himself over the edge.
The top of the Wall was broad and flat. He guessed it was over a hundred meters from the edge he’d just crossed to the far side. He glanced right and left. On the Wall, every few kilometers, there were huge, black metal towers. It was from these, of course, that the cables came that stretched out over the field of the dead, and from which the claws hung. He watched as one claw-scoop came up from the field to a tower, then, following the black cable, moved away from view.
He walked to the other edge of the Wall. When he arrived, he forced himself to look over the edge . . . then reeled back, fighting vertigo and nausea. On the other side was a vast, vast, space. The Wall must be a hundred kilometers from top to bottom.
Slowly, he regained control of himself and crawled on his stomach to the edge. He could see cables from the towers carrying scoops with their grisly cargos toward the depths below. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that, down there, on the plains, was an intricate network of canals or waterways. These stretched out like a maze for almost as far as he could see. Sometimes parallel, sometimes converging, the waterways all ran toward a single point, far in the distance.
He thought, if he strained, he could just make out some sort of huge structure there, black and ominous, where the waters became one.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
He never know how long it took him...
He never knew how long it took him to walk the distance. There seemed to be no sun here, no night, no way of keeping. He knew he was tormented the whole way. He could breathe now, but he could not drink. Thirst, which he hadn’t noticed while he was in the pit, now became an endless torture. Sometimes he found himself eyeing the dead and wondering if their blood could be consumed. But, he couldn’t force himself that far. He was dead, but he wasn’t that dead.
Fortunately, he found there was a source of water in his horrible new world. It seemed that moisture would condense on the cables above his head, then drip down in fat, dirty droplets. He was able to catch these in his hands and drink.
Strangely, he never felt hunger. Perhaps, he thought, his intestines were simply too damaged for it.
He did urinate, though. It took him by surprise, but about halfway the field of the dead, he felt his bladder fill. He had to experiment. His penis had damaged along with the rest of him. But, with a little effort, he found he could relieve himself effectively.
He sprayed the yellow droplets on a handy skull. He pretended it was the face of his enemies . . . of those who had put him here.
Slowly, the Wall grew larger. At first, it was simply a line on the horizon. Then, it became a hazy barrier against the sky. Then, it was hard and tall, like a mountain range.
Finally... he was there.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Claw
He watched fascinated. At first, he thought perhaps the claw could fly, but then he saw it was attached to a huge chain and that this was lifting it up into the blood-red sky. He followed it upwards until to a halt. He realized that an intricate set of cables crisscrossed the sky, and that from them dangled metal claws like the one that had almost claimed him. All across the field of the dead, he saw the scoops plunge downward, claim a cargo, and then rise.
Of course. He remembered the corpse-quakes. The sounds. This had been their source.
The dead were being collected and conveyed . . . where? He watched as the claw above him now wheeled about on its cable and rolled off toward the distant wall.
Without knowing quite why, he walked in the same direction, making his way across the uneven mounds. It wasn’t easy going. He kept one eye on the sky, to avoid falling claws, and another on the ground. Every other step, a rotting chest might gave way beneath him, or a skull might crush at his step.
Of course. He remembered the corpse-quakes. The sounds. This had been their source.
The dead were being collected and conveyed . . . where? He watched as the claw above him now wheeled about on its cable and rolled off toward the distant wall.
Without knowing quite why, he walked in the same direction, making his way across the uneven mounds. It wasn’t easy going. He kept one eye on the sky, to avoid falling claws, and another on the ground. Every other step, a rotting chest might gave way beneath him, or a skull might crush at his step.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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