»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
Merbereg - 2
| Passions in Prose |
|
Merbereg - 2 |
|
|
Copperbell Senior Member
since 2003-11-08
Posts 956 |
They are coming from my left; I quickly scan the hall to my right. There are myriad doorways of cut stone. Even in my fear I notice that the walls are intricately carved. I heave my backpack onto my shoulder and race to the nearest doorway. I duck inside; I can hear my blood pounding. In the centre of the room is a huge circular table with two great wooden chairs placed on each end; fit for an ancient warrior general. The angry voices are getting closer. In a panic, I hide behind one of the chairs. Suddenly heavy footsteps enter the room. Oh how I long to be invisible – never have I longed more for anything. The footsteps come closer, right to the table. I feel faint now. Dusty beaten brown leather boots are only inches from where I hide. If he sits in the chair… Clunk. Something heavy is dropped on the table. The boots turn and leave the room. I can hear several people walking down the stone hallway. The sound fades. I remember to breathe. I peek from behind the chair. It is a book dropped on the table. A modern book – in English. On the cover is a photograph of the desert. Waves of orange red sand, with craggy mountains in the distance shimmer under a crimson sky, set aflame by the sun’s evening fire. The headline reads: LOST, the City of Fools. I frown. Did he know I was here? Did he leave it for me? I flip open the book and see the very room I am standing in. And in the photograph stand two men dressed in early 20th century garb, each proudly holding a golden goblet high. I skim the article below. Treasure found in the City of Fools is valued at… Suddenly the light that floods the room; that floods every place I’ve been dies. * * * * * It has been dark for hours. It is the darkness that should be. The darkness that should exist hundreds of feet below the surface of the ground. Yet, there is air, and it is not stale. And there is the sound of water rushing, never ending that has been comforting me in this time of unease. I don’t know what to do. I cannot explore what I cannot see, so I decide to think. I mean really think. I may never escape. I may never return to my world, to my home, to my loved ones. I hope, but know in my heart that hope is not yet real, and may never come to pass. And so I think about the good green earth and all that I have seen there. For plants and flowers and children. For frosty drinks not peppered with the grit of the earth. And for clean water and fresh air and someone to love. Why did I come? I told myself it was for a great purpose, the adventure of a lifetime. And it was, but for what I bitterly tell myself? I lie down flat on the cold stone floor and trace the outline of stones that have been laid thousands of years before. A cool breeze washes over me and a shower of pebbles and sharp bits of rock and sand flows down from the ceiling. Now I get to feel what its like to be buried in an avalanche, I think bitterly, too weary to hope. |
||
| © Copyright 2004 Copperbell - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
