The Shadows of a Tireless Mind
Headaches seem to flutter from left to right, from back to front. I open my eyes, carefully: the light seems to make my headache worse. I take stock of where I am. I don't remember how I got here, but I'm face down on the side of a dirt hill. I raise my head a bit, and realize it's not a hill, it's the inside of a crater, from which much smoke is billowing.
I spit dirt.
I wonder if I have anything with me that might help me find my way out of this place. I study my surroundings in hopes of recognition. There are mountains to the left, a forest to the right, and an indefinite horizon to my front. I turn to see what's behind me and almost fall off the hundred foot cliff on the ledge of which I find myself standing. Chunks of packed dirt from under my feet tumble to the ocean below, colliding with the rock face on their way.
One thing catches my eye, so I step back and get down on my stomach to peer over the ledge more safely. There is a tree root jutting from the face, with a satchel slung around it. I try to guage the distance to the satchel. It seems about ten feet, and my curiosity could not be more piqued.
I slide back, and I sit up. I can't get my mind off it; what's in the bag? I can't help but feel that it may belong to me, as I and the bag seem to be the only manmade objects in the area. By what means did I even get here? Could I have been flung from somewhere in such a way that the bag could have been dropped in flight and snagged that root?
That brings to mind a fairly relevant question itself. I stand up and lock each of my joints, testing for pain. I feel none. I stand on one leg, then the other. I get down and do a push-up, and still no pain. I seem uninjured. This much is good. Though I was trained in combat lifesaving in the Army, I don't see any supplies around if I needed treatment. Maybe there's supplies in the bag.
What is in that bag?
It was hanging from a root. Logically, there ought to be a tree around here somewhere, but I see none. Odd, that, that a root should stick out where the is no tree. I must just not be seeing it. I look closer, and I see a stump, almost flush with the ground, and smooth. How terribly peculiar. Natural forces are too rough and unguided to have done that; someone had to have cut that tree. But whom and for what? I can't tell if it was done recently, I wonder if the tree being cut down has to do with the bag, whatever the hell is in there.
It's too bad the tree wasn't still there; I could use a branch from it to reach for the bag. There's a fire in the center of the crater in which I found myself; I could use the heat to form a hook if I had a green branch. I look around again, maybe there'd be another tree. I remember the forest and feel like an idiot. I wander over there, and look for a long enough branch to hook the bag. I find one, but the branch is too thick to be snapped off. I go back out to the dirt area, and find a large rock.
After cutting my hands serverely and possibly breaking my left thumb, I have severed the branch from the tree. I clear all the minor branches from it, until I have a fifteen foot long pole. I carry it back to the fire, and I notice the shadows which fall over the land. I crane my neck skyward and realize there's a hell of a storm brewing. Since the fire is pretty important to my plan of fashioning a hook, I hurry.
After heating and bending, very incrementally and carefully so as not to burn the wood, I have a rather decent hook with a good amount of strength. I could still pull it straight. I hope the bag's not heavy.
Then again, if it isn't heavy, it probably doesn't have anything important in it. Kind of a discouraging choice, between a heavy and possibly unobtainable bag and a light and therefore probably unhelpful bag. I suppose it's a moot point.
I get back to the cliff and the storm has begun. The winds are whipping the waves into a froth and hail is pelting my skin. I keep my eyes squinted out of reflex as I slide the hook under the strap of the satchel, and very carefully heft it's weight, testing the resiliency of the hook while the root was still there to catch the bag. I feel it's quite heavy, but the hook is holding, so I start hoping and guide the satchel off of the root and start hoisting it up.
The hail is increasing. There's lightning, and the wind is strong enough to make my kneeling position untenable. I carefully lower myself flat to my stomach, ad wince as the hail hits harder. I can see chunks the size of grapes slamming into the rocks around me and hope one isn't destined for my skull soon.
When I get the bag to the top and secure, I find it zipped closed. I hurriedly search for the zipper handle when a ball of ice he size of my fist slams into the ground a few inches from me. I take off my shirt and form a tent over my head, hopefully protective from the tension of the cloth, and notice a light coming from the mountains. Is that a cave? If it is, with a fire inside, there must be someone in there. At the moment, I nevied anyone with a cave and a fire, and hoped they were friendly. I strapped the satchel around my neck and re-constructed my shirt-based head shield and ran towards the mountains.
I picked my way up the path I'd found until I got to a wide ledge. I figured the cave was around this height, so I ran to the right seeking it. Pieces of ice were hitting my shirt and tiring my arms from absorbing the impact, but better my arm muscles than my skull.
I spot the entrance to the cave and as I round the corner, I see the fire and a rather large surprise to go with it: a beautiful girl, I'd guess in her early twenties, with flaming red hair and crystal blue eyes to offset her alabaster skin, awash in the oplaine iridescence provided by the fire. She laid on a velvet sofa, with rich tapestries adorning the well-smoothed walls of the cave. The floor was covered with a fur rug, and I was amazed that such opulence was present in this bizarre locale.
A chunk of ice rebounded off the wall above the entrance to the cave and clipped me in the nose. "Fuck!" I exclaimed, which woke the sleeping siren. She looked at me through eyes blearly with recent wakefulness, and stood up.
"Are you the one who fell from the sky?" she asked, becoming more alert.
"Probably," I responded, unsure whether or not that description could be applied to me.
"What's in the bag?" she asked, with well-emoted curiosity. I laughed a little.
"That's a good question, I don't know yet." Another chunk of ice rebounded and slapped me in the ear. "God damn it... can I come in for a minute?"
She flicked her gaze from the bag to my eyes. "Give me the bag, then, I'll see what's in it and you can shelter yourself and get warm."
Suddenly, I felt very protective of the bag. i could not explain why but I sensed somehow that the bag held the answer to everything, an explanation, and a way out. Perhaps I'd come here for the bag in the first place. In either case, my delay in answer was seeming to make her a bit angry, which only cemented in my mind the notion that she was plotting to take my bag.
"Why don't I open it when I come in?" I responded.
"If you won't give me the bag, you can't come in." She crossed her arms, tersely. I was at a loss, what kind of brazenness would it take to demand someone give you the only possession they have aside from their clothes for shelter? It occurred to me that it would be easier to negotiate if the bag were a known quantity.
"Hold on, I'll give you an answer in a minute."
She looked me in the eye and I nearly melted. She was so beautiful, and surrounded in such luxury. It could be considered my dream, and I was being asked to risk everything to share the space with her.
"Give me the bag or leave. You have three seconds." I couldn't even begin to formulate an answer when the three seconds were up and she turned her back to me. The rocks above the cave entrance fell and blocked it in perfectly. Now it was just me and the bag, for better or worse. I searched around the mountain, but the best shelter I could find was a minor overhang that did nothing to block the wind and only a little to block the hail.
I opened the bag.
I spit dirt.
I wonder if I have anything with me that might help me find my way out of this place. I study my surroundings in hopes of recognition. There are mountains to the left, a forest to the right, and an indefinite horizon to my front. I turn to see what's behind me and almost fall off the hundred foot cliff on the ledge of which I find myself standing. Chunks of packed dirt from under my feet tumble to the ocean below, colliding with the rock face on their way.
One thing catches my eye, so I step back and get down on my stomach to peer over the ledge more safely. There is a tree root jutting from the face, with a satchel slung around it. I try to guage the distance to the satchel. It seems about ten feet, and my curiosity could not be more piqued.
I slide back, and I sit up. I can't get my mind off it; what's in the bag? I can't help but feel that it may belong to me, as I and the bag seem to be the only manmade objects in the area. By what means did I even get here? Could I have been flung from somewhere in such a way that the bag could have been dropped in flight and snagged that root?
That brings to mind a fairly relevant question itself. I stand up and lock each of my joints, testing for pain. I feel none. I stand on one leg, then the other. I get down and do a push-up, and still no pain. I seem uninjured. This much is good. Though I was trained in combat lifesaving in the Army, I don't see any supplies around if I needed treatment. Maybe there's supplies in the bag.
What is in that bag?
It was hanging from a root. Logically, there ought to be a tree around here somewhere, but I see none. Odd, that, that a root should stick out where the is no tree. I must just not be seeing it. I look closer, and I see a stump, almost flush with the ground, and smooth. How terribly peculiar. Natural forces are too rough and unguided to have done that; someone had to have cut that tree. But whom and for what? I can't tell if it was done recently, I wonder if the tree being cut down has to do with the bag, whatever the hell is in there.
It's too bad the tree wasn't still there; I could use a branch from it to reach for the bag. There's a fire in the center of the crater in which I found myself; I could use the heat to form a hook if I had a green branch. I look around again, maybe there'd be another tree. I remember the forest and feel like an idiot. I wander over there, and look for a long enough branch to hook the bag. I find one, but the branch is too thick to be snapped off. I go back out to the dirt area, and find a large rock.
After cutting my hands serverely and possibly breaking my left thumb, I have severed the branch from the tree. I clear all the minor branches from it, until I have a fifteen foot long pole. I carry it back to the fire, and I notice the shadows which fall over the land. I crane my neck skyward and realize there's a hell of a storm brewing. Since the fire is pretty important to my plan of fashioning a hook, I hurry.
After heating and bending, very incrementally and carefully so as not to burn the wood, I have a rather decent hook with a good amount of strength. I could still pull it straight. I hope the bag's not heavy.
Then again, if it isn't heavy, it probably doesn't have anything important in it. Kind of a discouraging choice, between a heavy and possibly unobtainable bag and a light and therefore probably unhelpful bag. I suppose it's a moot point.
I get back to the cliff and the storm has begun. The winds are whipping the waves into a froth and hail is pelting my skin. I keep my eyes squinted out of reflex as I slide the hook under the strap of the satchel, and very carefully heft it's weight, testing the resiliency of the hook while the root was still there to catch the bag. I feel it's quite heavy, but the hook is holding, so I start hoping and guide the satchel off of the root and start hoisting it up.
The hail is increasing. There's lightning, and the wind is strong enough to make my kneeling position untenable. I carefully lower myself flat to my stomach, ad wince as the hail hits harder. I can see chunks the size of grapes slamming into the rocks around me and hope one isn't destined for my skull soon.
When I get the bag to the top and secure, I find it zipped closed. I hurriedly search for the zipper handle when a ball of ice he size of my fist slams into the ground a few inches from me. I take off my shirt and form a tent over my head, hopefully protective from the tension of the cloth, and notice a light coming from the mountains. Is that a cave? If it is, with a fire inside, there must be someone in there. At the moment, I nevied anyone with a cave and a fire, and hoped they were friendly. I strapped the satchel around my neck and re-constructed my shirt-based head shield and ran towards the mountains.
I picked my way up the path I'd found until I got to a wide ledge. I figured the cave was around this height, so I ran to the right seeking it. Pieces of ice were hitting my shirt and tiring my arms from absorbing the impact, but better my arm muscles than my skull.
I spot the entrance to the cave and as I round the corner, I see the fire and a rather large surprise to go with it: a beautiful girl, I'd guess in her early twenties, with flaming red hair and crystal blue eyes to offset her alabaster skin, awash in the oplaine iridescence provided by the fire. She laid on a velvet sofa, with rich tapestries adorning the well-smoothed walls of the cave. The floor was covered with a fur rug, and I was amazed that such opulence was present in this bizarre locale.
A chunk of ice rebounded off the wall above the entrance to the cave and clipped me in the nose. "Fuck!" I exclaimed, which woke the sleeping siren. She looked at me through eyes blearly with recent wakefulness, and stood up.
"Are you the one who fell from the sky?" she asked, becoming more alert.
"Probably," I responded, unsure whether or not that description could be applied to me.
"What's in the bag?" she asked, with well-emoted curiosity. I laughed a little.
"That's a good question, I don't know yet." Another chunk of ice rebounded and slapped me in the ear. "God damn it... can I come in for a minute?"
She flicked her gaze from the bag to my eyes. "Give me the bag, then, I'll see what's in it and you can shelter yourself and get warm."
Suddenly, I felt very protective of the bag. i could not explain why but I sensed somehow that the bag held the answer to everything, an explanation, and a way out. Perhaps I'd come here for the bag in the first place. In either case, my delay in answer was seeming to make her a bit angry, which only cemented in my mind the notion that she was plotting to take my bag.
"Why don't I open it when I come in?" I responded.
"If you won't give me the bag, you can't come in." She crossed her arms, tersely. I was at a loss, what kind of brazenness would it take to demand someone give you the only possession they have aside from their clothes for shelter? It occurred to me that it would be easier to negotiate if the bag were a known quantity.
"Hold on, I'll give you an answer in a minute."
She looked me in the eye and I nearly melted. She was so beautiful, and surrounded in such luxury. It could be considered my dream, and I was being asked to risk everything to share the space with her.
"Give me the bag or leave. You have three seconds." I couldn't even begin to formulate an answer when the three seconds were up and she turned her back to me. The rocks above the cave entrance fell and blocked it in perfectly. Now it was just me and the bag, for better or worse. I searched around the mountain, but the best shelter I could find was a minor overhang that did nothing to block the wind and only a little to block the hail.
I opened the bag.
posted by Hegemon at 5:51 AM
5 Comments:
Very intriguing. I imagine I will spend much of the day today at least wondering what is in the bag.
It's up to you as the reader to decide what's in the bag after grasping he metaphor. I had many, many different (and sometimes opposite) answers in mind as I wrote it.
I understood that this was not a to be continued, hence why I am wondering. Especially since your write well enough, that you always draw me in with your metaphors, although I undoubtedly tend to see them in a completely different light than they were intended.
They are intended to be seen however you can most meaningfully do so.
I know, and well done by yourself. This is why I can tell stories to friends and suck at writing them down. I can tap into the friendships in the telling to make it work. I can't tap into anything in the writing. Not like you can.
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