"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

03 June 2012

The Escape

The crumbling structure carried the scent of fetid water, desperation, bad ends, and broken dreams. Doors were locked and debris blocked passages. The fact there was electrical light, such as it was, was an incongruence. None of us thought much about that, though. Getting out was an all-consuming goal. Being trapped is never fun.

The rattle of an approaching train got our attention. Hopes of salvation. Fears of damnation. Someone noticed the cameras leering down on us, lecherous, in their mechanical observation. Suddenly, it all made sense; They had sent the Pit Bull Children to deal with us, and They were going to watch. It was going to be televised. Sandwiched between the latest pundit's fire and brimstone diatribe and feel-good sitcom. Not having owned a television in many years now, I'm no longer sure how these things work.

Not wanting to go down without a fight, if at all, the search for a way out became that much more tantamount. Some of us began to look for make-shift weapons. I found myself glad I had decided to carry my grandfather's shotgun with me, since it usually collected dust in a quite corner of the house next to a box of shells, which had never been opened. It seemed logical I would've brought at least a few shells with me, and began fishing through my pack and pockets for them. That was when I found the key.

"Hello, my pretty," I whispered.

It seemed logical to slip the key into the locked door in front of me. With an expectant moan, it opened before us. Smiles of small triumph formed upon our fearful faces. With a quick motion of the hand, I got the others to follow, closing and locking the door behind me. We moved quickly, some keeping an open eye for the Pit Bull Children with their Wild Hunt, others searching for doors to be unlocked. For every one of those, my key worked, and we would lock up behind us, sometimes further barricading the door with debris. The train had just pulled up when I opened the last door. We could hear the bark of dogs; Hellhounds on our trail. I locked the door and it grew silent.

Warm sunlight glittered down as we scattered across field and forest, putting as much distance between the crumbling structure and ourselves as we could. It stood behind us like a tattered gravestone in a forgotten cemetery. One by one, or in small groups, we all went our separate ways. The nightmare of the structure and the Pit Bull Children becoming phantasmal memory.

Walking through a willow bog, I cam across a legless man who bore a striking resemblance to Danny Devito. He was fly-fishing. We waved at one another, as is courtesy when out in the bush. He asked me where I was headed and I pointed to the snow-encrusted peaks just spitting distance away. I was within a mile of home.

"Do you ski?" He asked me.

"Snowshoe," I replied. "Hike, bike, and boulder."

"Be careful out there," he said. "That's how I lost my legs."

I thanked him with a an inclination of my head and salute of the barrel of my grandfather's shotgun. It was sound advice. I meant to ponder its profundity once I got home.


  1. The Pit Bull Children sound terrifying. Great description. Entirely intriguing,

    1. Thank you. Of course, in all honesty, I have nothing against pit bulls themselves.

  2. A shotgun is handy as a weapon even without any shells. Just turn it around and swing it like a bat. That's my preferred method of defense. Though, I rarely actually connect to my target in my dreams.

    And just how do you fly fish with no legs? I'd like to see that...

    1. This was all based off a dream, which would rationally explain-giving a wrinkle, a squint, and the benefit of the the doubt-a legless man being able to fly-fish. Although, he was casting whilst being on a stump, and that just sounds wrong in the describing of it.

      In the self-published book I did, at one point, my main character got down and dirty with a baseball bat. I got a little...graphic. Friends as the time were convinced I was just as sociopathic as my character.

    2. Well, sometimes writing out the fantasy can be quite rewarding. The part that makes you NOT sociopathic is that you haven't actually crossed that line. (I hope.)

  3. I wish I could dream/have the imagination to come up with a story like this. The 'hello my pretty' line in particular gave me the chills.

    1. Thank you. Although, half the time I question whether it's more a curse than blessing.