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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Drama · #2194868
Christopher won't leave his side of the chasm, despite there being a 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, he dropped to his hands and knees, still pressed tight to the rock, trying desperately to avoid the blazing sun overhead. The sun, a violent golden orb, paid no attention to the desperate man trying so hard to avoid his touch. Next he 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 crablike, 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 he had been around. And that seemed like a long time. So boring, so pointless, so hot. He 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, he 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 him, or at least paid him no attention. Typically, he 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 triggering a physical reaction in him. He looked at the stone bridge, covered in dust, having never seen use, at least in the time that he had been here. "Although there was that one time, quite some time ago", he 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, once again gripping the wall and swearing under his breath.

         Moving along the wall, he 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 him. 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 the end of the bridge. It was then that he panicked. The fear that gripped him clouded his vision and turned his stomach. But he had nowhere to go. The rock wall kept him circling the chasm but led nowhere. The men stopped at the bridge's opening and waited, for what, he 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, he 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. He arose again, clinging the rock wall and cursing.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2194868