|Till May (standard:fantasy, 5658 words)|
|Author: Spotlight||Added: Dec 06 2003||Views/Reads: 2778/2558||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is one of my personal favorites, therefore it probably alienates many readers. If anything, it is something you have never and probably will never read again. (telemarketting, werewolves, time-travel, symbolism)|
TILL MAY by Spotlight Pine trees were marked with claws, like arrows pointing me along the banks of a swift river. It cut through the forest, deep with brown water, small and meandering at a steady pace. The air was thick, a dim fog surrounding the area and seeping grey around the undergrowth. I ran, panting until the water split, diverging around an island. Here a trail of smooth dark pebbles underneath the water led to the unnatural mound. Strange dusty footsteps followed the coast leaving the ferns and cowtails untouched and dipping in the muddy banks. The trees tilted toward the river, blotting out the atmosphere like a slanted wall and the trail continued along the center of the island. My khakis slapped wetly against the heels of my muddied Rockport casual dress shoes, squishing against the mound like a balding meadow, thin blades of grass sparsely slanting towards water along the less traveled areas. I would have thought he was a gargoyle, perched on the edge of the seemingly ancient cliff, but his gray ears turned swiftly. The sounds of crashing water echoed from where he crouched, a long thin hand dangled between his legs. Beneath my feet, I could watch as the earth changed gradually into a rough metallic rock, a brown-red-black like a dark rust, yet dulled and gritty like granite. The structure emerged from the island and protruded fifty feet forward into clean air. On either side of the monument, water swiftly flowed then plunged downward, a dual waterfall. I doubted my safety, unable to inch my way further onto the thing, to step forward past the clean cut edge of water and test the durability of it, although I saw no cracks in the surface. The creature sensed my moment's pause and turned, his grey neck swiveling to reveal the thin black line of a werewolf's muzzle. His groomed fur shone white even in the dull of a clouded sky. Perhaps I was entranced by the clearing, the ring of fog surrounding the two of us, or paranoid of the dead-end, but the sound of his voice did not surprise me. “You won't be able to outrun them forever.” He stated it without emotion. “Might want to enjoy some company before you die.” His lips curled into a smile. With that said, he stood completely. He was not tall, but his presence was immediately imposing. His broad shoulders tapered to a tone stomach, muscles visible under the coat of fur. His chest was covered in white fur that merged to grey at the sides, a grey that covered his long arms and muscled fingers, that swept down to a floating tail capped with white. There was a sense of animal unpredictability in his pose, betraying his warm smile. “Who are those people? We can't stay here, we'll be caught!” I said. “Hunters. We are most likely surrounded. We will be caught and killed. Want to hear a story?” # I guess in ICT, the drug-dealers were out the back door on smoke breaks, logging off with 05 every hour or so. Rumors circulated in the conference room, when we were trained on one new word not to say to cover the company's ass just in case JC Penney's listened in on a test call. We were a customer service company with outdated computer equipment, dedicated to reminding customers of their “free trial period” and hoping they would forget to call back within the next few weeks. A ten-page booklet on the art of rebuttal lost even our trainer's interest, leaning softly in the comfortable chairs we could not steal for our open cubicles. It could be the fifth training session dealing with the exact same “cheerful attitude equals success” material, the exact same fifteen question quiz memorized as ABBADCCCBADDCDA. There was no sense of identity in the work, only numbers to log in, manic supervisors always rushing, and especially, gossip to pass around the office floor. I never saw it. I heard about this Saturday in the chairs, and that last Friday, the keg party at Amanda's, the voodoo African reps into Santa Maria and Cameron's fiancee, the bitch with angry painted eyebrows, the drug busts. That was 08, a meeting. Not even the supervisors knew what numbers meant “bathroom break”. Click here to read the rest of this story (478 more lines)
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