My Writer's Cramp Pieces

Avalanche

Avalanche

Deep in the Alps, a lonesome skier twisted his body to the right. The snow was pristine. The sun was warm. All should have been perfect, but his heart wasn't in the beauty of the day. Christine hadn't come. Christine was with David now. How had that happened? When? Why was he now alone?

It wasn't safe to be alone here. One should never ski without a partner. Herman knew that, but he didn't care. He didn't care if he lived. Not without Christine.

The wind spanked his nose. He fumbled in his pocket for a kerchief to wipe it. The sweet sloosh of his skis played music in his ears. He had a sudden urge to mention the sound to Christine. She would have laughed, that tinkly laugh of hers that always sounded like bells or the flick of a finger against crystal glass. Ah, Christine.

Herman slowed and came to a stop. He blew his nose heartily, then paused to savor the cleanness and the white perfection of the snow. No one was around; it didn't matter that tears wet his face and the kerchief he used to wipe them. Why, Christine? Why?

A deep rumble boomed from behind him. Herman turned to look. He knew that sound. He knew what it meant. Avalanche.

He poled himself forward and sped downward, this time not for the pleasure of it, but because if he didn't, he knew he would be swallowed.

Tears gone. Face frozen in a grimace of horror. Herman raced against the approaching mass. Quick! Straight. Streams of air brushed against him, arguing against his speed. Slow down, they said, but Herman couldn't listen. The booming mouth of the trap sped ever faster. Following. Chasing. Licking at his heels.

There was no Christine on Herman's lips then. No thoughts of cashing in his chips. Herman had only one desire. To make it out of this avalanche. To live.

When he was a young child, Herman's favorite past time had been to line up his dominoes to see them fall. A childish passion, his mother had said. But Herman had been captivated by it. His spirals and patterns had been a work of art. He'd assembled each operation as carefully as an artist composed his art. And then when it was ready, when each domino stood at attention, its dots neatly facing its brother beside it, then Herman had yelled out, "Avalanche." With one godlike push of an index finger, the destruction had begun. Herman, standing bent over his creation, yelling it on, had cried out at each delicious wave of the demolition, "Avalanche. Avalanche. Yes!" he'd cried out.

Now he was inside that game. The falling dominoes were no longer just pieces of wood and plastic; they were snowflakes that clung together so massively huge, trees fell under their passing. But just like with the brutal wave of the dominoes, destruction was barreling down on him. He would fall when it hit him, fall beneath that wave of snow, fall and be buried until spring.

"It's not fair," Herman cried out. "I did everything for you, Christine. I handed you that job, groomed you to meet the demands of it. I caressed every ambition you owned. And, I loved you. I told you that day after day. Why wasn't it enough? Why?"

But he knew. He knew that David would take her the next step up in the rung of the ladder. Christine was aligning her dominoes perfectly. It was simply time for the first one to fall.

You cannot outrun an avalanche. You can't even out ski it, for an avalanche unrolls itself at over 200 miles an hour. Herman knew that, yet still he pushed himself to beat that thunderous beast rolling down the slope after him. Herman's heart beat in overtime. His arms pumped. His legs pushed and steered him forward. His soul half burst through the environment of his body, in striving to beat the flow of the snow and boulders that followed him. But the thunder was in his ear now, licking at his ankles.

"Avalanche," Herman cried once more and down he went, his mind still clinging to the black and white dominoes of his youth and the memory of Christine who'd given him that cruel-hearted fatal last push.




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