Volleyball game

Christopher clung to the rock wall, his face, wet with perspiration, pressed tight to the sheer granite, his hands, clammy, grasped, fruitlessly, to find a hold, and his feet, firmly planted on the sandy soil shuffled along, confused as to why they were even involved in this bizarre canter.  Then in one quick motion, Christopher dropped to his hands and knees, still pressed tight to the rock, trying desperately to avoid the blazing sun overhead.  The sun, a blazing golden orb, paid no attention to the desperate man trying so hard to avoid his touch.  Next Christopher dove to his left, wishing desperately that this now in reach rock formation would provide some sort of shade.  But it did not.  Christopher whimpered and scuttled somewhat crab like, back to the rock wall, sheer, smooth, unforgiving and seemingly without pinnacle.

He stepped over the motionless body of a very fat man, lying face down in the sand, his head mostly buried.  Christopher knew the man was not dead, no one ever died here, at least in the time Christopher had been around.  And that seemed like an awful long time.  So boring, so pointless, so hot.  Christopher could not remember how long he had been here or even arriving here, wherever here was.  He had it in the back of his mind that he was in Bakersfield, CA, but knew he wasn't.  "Here", was far too dirty and hot for Bakersfield.  At least there were no gangs here.  There was no community, no collaboration, no cliques or groups or collectives, whatsoever.  And for Christopher, that was perfectly fine, he despised others.  He turned around and kicked the fat man in the kidneys, simply because he could.  The man's body flailed in shock, but only for a moment and then went motionless again.  Christopher shielded his eyes and looked across the barren sand.  Off in the distance beyond the sand, beyond the stone bridge that crossed the yawning precipice, Christopher could see nearly a dozen young men in knee length white shorts and no shirts, playing a game of volleyball.  The men didn't see Christopher, or at least paid him no attention.  Typically, Christopher avoided exposing himself to those on the other side, but the slight hint of music that had drifted across the chasm, caught his ear.  He shuddered and retched, the music actually triggering a physical reaction in him.  Christopher looked at the stone bridge, covered in dust, having never seen use, at least in the time that Christopher had been here.  "Although there was that one time, quite some time ago", Christopher said out loud to himself (and finishing the thought in his mind), that one really skinny guy started running toward the bridge, but just before he reached its opening, he veered to the left and threw himself over the edge, into the chasm. The sudden movement startled Christopher, especially seeing the guy disappear over the edge.  But he merely paused and turned back to the rock wall, only to meet the same guy, ten minutes later, one again gripping the wall and swearing under his breath.

Moving along the wall, Christopher stumbled, smacking his face on a small protrusion, chipping his tooth.  He looked back to see a single hand, actually only four fingers, sticking out of the ground. It was grasping, reaching, struggling, eventually working out to an entire arm, shoulder and then upper body.  An extremely homely, old woman pulled herself out of the sand and threw up on Christopher's shoes.  He kicked her and continued on his way.

Christopher would have maintained his current path, but the music caught his attention again, but this time he noticed the volleyball games had stopped.  All twelve men were looking over toward Christopher.  One of them waved.  Christopher threw back his middle finger.  He would have spit too, had his mouth not been so dry.  All of the men turned and walked to their end of the bridge.  It was then that Christopher panicked.  The far that gripped him clouded his vision and turned his stomach.  But he had no where to go.  The rock wall kept him circling the chasm but led no where.  The men stopped at the bridge's opening and waited, for what, Christopher had no idea.  Christopher hated them, deeply and passionately, thoughts of violence and perversion flooded his mind, things he could do, or would do to them, if he could muster up enough courage to not run away. But he only ran.  In pointless circles around and back, trying desperately to avoid the men, eventually, they turned, disappearing from view, leaving Christopher to curse them, without reason and running in circles.   Eventually Christopher collapsed, tripping over the fat man.  He too lay motionless, trying to catch his breath, but only sucking in dust and sand.  He lay for a while, but began to itch as sand fleas worked their way into his pants and shirt, biting him.  Christopher arose again, clinging the rock wall and cursing.

The slippery slope

Luther had been walking for a very long time.  Initially it had been a family outing.  His wife and children happily had joined him, the path wide, smooth and sparkly bright.  But eventually, the light began to dim ever so slightly almost unnoticeably, but the darkness came upon them and his children began to peel off, one to the left, one to the right, even Junior eventually left but his was a dead stop and a sprint in the other direction.  For awhile Luther could see them, in his peripheral vision, but eventually they were out of sight.

The last to leave was his wife.  He noticed her occasionally sniffing.  Next, she was fanning her nose, then plugging her nose and finally holding her breath.  "Don't you smell that, Luther?"  she cried out.  "Good God, it smells like rotten eggs!"  Her last exclamation was followed by a half retch.  She stopped in her tracks and bolted to the left eventually moving exactly backwards from the way that that had just come.  Luther paused and sniffed, shrugged his shoulders and kept walking.

It was the stars overhead that caught Luther's attention. "I guess it is getting darker," he out loud to himself. His pace slowed as he looked out around him, for the first time in a long time.  The first thing he noticed was his lack of company.  Of course he knew his family was no longer with him, but it was the lack of anyone else that puzzled him.  He had seen no one (at least that he could remember) for a long time.  The second thing he noticed was the road.  It had become more of a path and had started to slope downward.  The further he walked, the more sloped it became.  It was still plenty smooth and clear.  The surface had almost a springy feel to it.
Luther's horizon had become more bleak as well.  Trees became far and few.  The occasional shrub, dry and brittle.  There were no animals, not even bugs, but Luther was thankful for that.  He despised the idea of dealing with mosquitoes. Luther could see further and further out, the horizon a sharp line between land and sky.  Eventually, it was only Luther and flat surface.  They land had lost all character.  No sand dunes, no rolling hills, no plant life, animal life or movement.  Luther stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, actually sliding forward as he hit the ground.  The slope had definitely become more pronounced and Luther noticed something else, the horizon looked closer.  "That's odd," again spoke out loud to himself.  "The horizon almost seems closer enough to touch."

Luther rubbed his eyes and refocusing, nearly lost his breath.  His path had shrunk to an eighth of its former size. He more seemed to be on an isthmus, his surrounding an indistinct fog.  He really didn't have the motivation to turn around and walk back up hill, so he continued down, the fog occasionally licking at his feet.  In less the length of a football field, Luther was walking a path no wider than a notebook, the sharply descending edges, pea gravel.  Suddenly it stopped. Everything.  Luther was standing on a floating patch of land, no larger than a stepping stone.  His world had disappeared.  And it was no longer even flat.  A lump, the size of his fist lay under his left foot.  Looking, Luther realized the lump was a mass of rope, a knot.  Luther sank to his knees and could feel that the rope descended directly beneath him.  Letting out a puff of breath, Luther swung down into the rope, into the fog.

Initially, it was an easy climb.  The rope had knots which fit his hands quite nicely. But after a few minutes, Luther noticed the knots getting smaller and further apart. Eventually the knots were gone and the rope smoother and smaller. Luther began to slide down more than climb down.  It was when the rope was no more than dental floss that Luther simply let go.  And he fell.

It was his wife that found him.  Somehow, Luther had wedged himself into the engine cavity of his car.  The engine wasn't running, but Luther's mouth was.  His inane babbling a mixture of laughter, philosophical lingo and grocery items.  His ever favorite autographed photo of Aleister Crowley, gripped in his sweaty hand.