Written By Casey Douglass
The air is languid but warm, the leaves on the woodland floor flicker and twitch, but lack the energy to really get into things. The shadows of the trees lean away at a pleasing angle, the contrast with the golden sunlight sends stripes of meaning through his neurons. He sits and looks.
He looks at the small spider’s web undulating to his left. He looks at the occasional dust mote floating in the sunlight. He looks at the leaves of the saplings nearby, their movement seeming to wave and beckon as the wind tussles them. Then he looks through the trees, through to the glaring white light sitting behind everything before him. He thinks that there could be anything over the top of the small hill.
It could be a view that stretches to the distant horizon, green fields and rook-filled copses peppering the landscape with all of the ingredients of a typical English country scene.
It could be the edge of a vast arid desert, the baked sand and twisting dust held at bay by the small crest of trees and soil before him.
It could look down on a vast futuristic city, a dome of glistening light protecting it from intruders and the elements, its vast skyscrapers sparkling through the energy field.
It could be the sun entering its death phase, growing fatter and fatter as it swallows the inner solar planets, hungry for the Earth and its inhabitants.
It could be the veil between this life and the next, the light of bliss or the seduction of hell urging people forward into what lies beyond.
It could be all of these things, it could be none of them. That’s why he likes it, this spot in the trees with the birds calling and the leaves rustling.
It feels like uncertainty, it feels like home.