Holiday
By Casey Douglass
As part of #fridayflash
Just outside the
village, there is a place that straddles the divide between the known
and the unknown. To the unwary traveller, it is a place of spacious
awe, but to the locals, it is a place to fear and avoid.
When you walk there,
you wind your way through a pleasant smelling forest, a general
atmosphere of rest and tranquillity hugging your shoulders. You push
on, the first sign of something amiss is the smell. To begin with, it
smells strangely like a sweet scented mould, not unpleasant but just
bordering on the uncomfortable. The odour increases and grows the
further you go along the road, becoming more and more intense. The
trees lining the road appear withered now, and blackened, as if
something leached away at their spirit until they just tired of life.
The last few hundred
yards of the road are barren, a dry silty sand all that sprinkles the
ground, but you don’t notice this. The ground slopes ever so
slightly away from you, drawing your eye to the yawning chasm ahead
of you. A vast hole in the ground punches down through the land, its
tableau looking like someone had discarded a black dinner plate that
was just too heavy for the table top, sinking down and down, the
walls of the precipice strangely smooth and slightly shiny. Once you
have drank deeply of the nothingness that resides there, you look at
something that only vaguely impinged on your consciousness before.
One hundred paces to
your right, a rickety rope bridge stretches across the unfathomed
depths, twisting and shaking in some foul updraught that belches the
sickly smelling vapour from deep below. As your eyes trace the route
of the bridge, they alight on the very centre of the eerie view. A
wooden house, perched precariously on a slim sliver of rock that
stabs out from the centre of the void. You gaze at the house,
wondering at it’s existence and how on earth it was even built. It
looks a nice house, well kept and in a style that wouldn’t look out
of place in any more modern scene. There are even a number of hanging
baskets and flower pots on its quaint veranda, rainbow coloured
blooms adding the dash of colour that the scene so desperately needs.
A face appears at a
window, a waving hand conveying that you should leave in no uncertain
terms. You don’t. The place has beguiled you and tweaked your
curiosity. After all, you can handle yourself, what is there to be
afraid of? You head to the bridge, your eyes upon the figure still
gesturing madly towards the forest. The first wooden slat groans
slightly as you test it with half of your weight, but seeing the
number of them ahead of you, decide to throw caution to the wind and
stride forward.
The figure rushes out
from the house now, a middle aged man with a balding head and a
midsummer tan. He doesn’t look like a local. He shouts at you in
some foreign language that you have no comprehension of, but you know
enough of the local language to confirm that he’s not from around
here. He stands at the far end of the bridge, becoming more and more
agitated with every step you take, his face turning red with
consternation.
You have reached the
half way point now, the blackness on both sides giving you the
distinct feeling that this might be how a horse feels wearing it’s
blinkers. The bridge sways more violently as your weight adds to it’s
wavelength of oscillation, your hand tightly gripping the guide rope.
You notice one missing slat just in time and almost stumble avoiding
it. The air blowing up from below you is almost unbearable in it’s
stench now, but very warm. You aren’t sure if the sweat on your
brow is from the heat or the concentration.
The man drops to his
knees, his hands clasped tightly together under his chin, the sounds
of sobbing reaching your ears. You try to stop, alarm triggering some
innate sense of caution that had until now been subverted. You find
you cannot. Your feet carry on pacing, slowly and with a purpose,
chewing up the distance between you and the man with every passing
moment. The man is coughing now, his hands scratching at his throat,
a rattling wheezing sound that doesn’t bode well. You grasp the
rope rail hard, trying to stop your feet by virtue of your arm
strength, but only achieve a stinging rope burn as the fibres rub off
a layer of skin.
You are there. The man
lays gurgling on the floor, his last breath expiring as your foot
touches the rocky foundation of the house. Whatever spell bewitched
you clears in an instant, the full control of your body returned to
you. You turn and stride onto the bridge again but your foot hits an
invisible barrier that’s as hard as a brick wall. Pain shoots
through your toes. You stumble backwards in shock and fall over the
man's body, your backside landing painfully on the floor. You pant
awhile, your pounding heart slowing enough for you to stop shaking,
and you slowly raise yourself and dust yourself off.
A flickering figure
appears in front of you, seemingly made of dark sand particles and
dust from the heated air. It speaks, its voice resembling the sound
of pebbles being rubbed together.
‘Welcome to the
Locii. I am your servant, and I can grant any wish that you desire.’
You stand open mouthed
but soon venture a small wish and stare amazed as it materializes in
front of you. Then another. Then another. Your mind is beguiled with
possibility and lust for the things you have always wanted, the
sexual encounters, the trinkets, the powers. You have been given a
vast tankard of possibility and you drink of it deeply. Time passes,
and you couldn’t be happier. Fantasies achieved steer the brain
away from the old life and cloud its small nagging voice that keeps
trying to bring you back, but it fails.
One day, you are
sitting in your plush lounge, enjoying another day in paradise. Your
servant fades into view in front of you.
‘Another is here.’
You smile, not
understanding. The servant points to the window. You gaze out and see
a traveller standing awkwardly at the forest mouth, gazing at the
view before them.
‘If they come here,
you will die.’
You turn to the servant
but it has already vanished. The traveller is looking at the house
now. You gesture for them to go away. They wave. You shout at the
traveller, your voice standing no chance of reaching them. They wave
again and move towards the bridge. Panic grips you as you run outside
to the bridge.
THE END
