Tales from the Cave
Oh, stories. I love it when they turn out to be more fun than you originally expected. I started out this month with nothing more, plot-wise, than "Mad Scientist + Sewer Hajj," but now, six days later, have a thriving rhetorical culture within the reach of my increasingly stubby fingers. (Mmm...carpal tunnel syndrome...) And I'm currently only 1500 words behind. That's eons better than my norm.
Samplesamplesample! This isn't the best to come out of the escapade, but it's the best that doesn't require an explanatory backstory.
The entrance faced him; a concrete drainage pipe, about four feet high, winding darkly into the side of an old neighborhood hill. No matter where he had lived all these past years, he had always been within a mile or two of this opening into the earth, though he did not remember ever consciously choosing his residence for that reason. Maybe it had been some irrational current of his brain at work-or maybe things like that just happened sometimes. Either way, despite always being so close to this concrete underground, it had been almost half a century since the last time he had seen it. It seemed mostly the same now as it had then; the damp smell, the thin trail of algae leading to the back darkness, and that intangible low-frequency rumble he always thought he heard coming from it, the strange sound that always had made him wonder if other people were moving around in this same system too. He pulled one foot up, dug it down a little to get a strong hold on the concrete floor of the tunnel, and wondered briefly how much of the topography of the system he remembered accurately. Then he stepped up, and a few seconds later the darkness dropped behind him like a curtain.
He had brought with him a small battery-powered flashlight and, for pure whimsy’s sake, a cheap compass. In his time, he remembered there had been red painted arrows on some of the walls deeper inward, pointing out important directions-central chambers, exits, important corridors, et cetera. He wasn’t sure they would be there anymore, though, and hadn’t brought anything to mark new ones with, which he regretted slightly-probably for reasons of the horror movie archetypes he carried unwittingly in the back of his mind. As he moved further in, though, he began to recognize a few landmarks-a certain overhead pipe arrangement, the bottom of a manhole, or a distinct turn-and his feeling of peace returned. He hadn’t forgotten the layout of the system entirely; the more he saw, the more the image of the whole started to come back to him. He felt almost happy to be back here; some piece of his younger self was returning with each turn. He ran his fingers across the walls as he traveled; the touch instilled him with new life. He had come back, finally, and it suddenly felt that he had done the right thing.
There was a great deal to explore and rediscover-he wanted to reawaken all the old familiarities, and was ecstatic to see how many remained despite the passing of so many years. That was the shelf where we sat sometimes, there was the crack we used to joke about mimicking some person’s profile, and there was the little nook where we used to keep all the papers-that last one gave him slight pause. The spot was empty of papers now. He carried them all in a little worn, weatherproof case in his arms. It was a good thing; they probably would have disintegrated if left down here for so long. He always wondered how objects seem to live prolonged lives when under into human care; nature prefers to reclaim and reabsorb all things, but the touch of hands and active thought rather seems to give objects a strong will to remain.
Still, he examined the nook all over with his flashlight, searching for maybe some forgotten scrap, stuck in a dark corner somewhere, a word lost in the dark for all these years. There was nothing. He looked a second, and then a third time. In his distraction, he did not notice a few small clues coming from behind him-the increased clarity of the rumble he had heard at the opening of the sewer, and the faint shimmer of golden light that moved about on the wall before him. He did not notice anything, indeed, until his senses were practically assaulted by it.
“HALT!” a little voice shouted from behind him.
The completely-unprepared former professor jumped high enough that he very narrowly missed bumping his head against the concrete ceiling. He then turned, and was faced with quite a sight.
Standing before him was a little boy who couldn’t have been much older than eight, carrying a crude torch and wielding a piece of thin pipe like a saber, pointed at the lower chest of the former professor-the highest he could reach. His chubby cheeks were arranged in a stern look, and he stared fearlessly at the man before him. The former professor, recovering a few seconds later from the fright, now had to repress a tickle of laughter at the gruff, chubby little child before him.
“I SAID HALT!” the little boy said.
“I’m not moving!” the former professor replied, raising his arms slightly in a gesture of bemused surrender.
The little boy tilted his chin up, examining his opposite. “Good,” he said. “Are you a policeman?”
“Certainly not.”
“ ‘Cuz I’ve got orders to kill any policemen I see down here.” He brandished his little pipe with a fierce look. “Lemme see your badge.”
“I don’t have a badge.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a policeman.”
The boy’s face puckered. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Are you a construction guy? ‘Cuz Van told me he sees ‘em around sometimes”
“Are there more of you down here, then? And no, I’m not a construction guy either,” the former professor replied.
“There’s lotsa us. A whole army-we own this place.” He puffed out his chest and squared his stare at the old man, seeming to size him up for a few moments.
“How long have you all been down here?”
“Fer’ever.”
“That long?”
“Yeah.” Abruptly the boy paused, and something seemed to occur to him. He chewed on the thought for a minute, squinting at the man standing slightly bent before him, and scratching his head with his pipe. “Mister, did you come down here to die?” he finally asked.
The former professor was caught entirely off guard by the question. He stared down at the squat little child in dumbfounded silence, until it occurred to him that there was no real reason to not tell the truth.
“Yes,” he replied, half-whispering.
The boy relaxed, and smiled upward at him. “That’s all right, lotsa people come here for that.” He slid his pipe into a crude holster that looked as though it used to be someone’s hat, and offered a grubby little hand to the former professor. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everybody.”
The former professor found himself completely charmed by the gesture, the bright smile and big eyes of the child in front of him, and he took the offered hand gently, allowing himself to be lead off into the darkness.
If I can use the word "defenestration" more than five times in the next month, I believe my life will be more or less complete.
Samplesamplesample! This isn't the best to come out of the escapade, but it's the best that doesn't require an explanatory backstory.
The entrance faced him; a concrete drainage pipe, about four feet high, winding darkly into the side of an old neighborhood hill. No matter where he had lived all these past years, he had always been within a mile or two of this opening into the earth, though he did not remember ever consciously choosing his residence for that reason. Maybe it had been some irrational current of his brain at work-or maybe things like that just happened sometimes. Either way, despite always being so close to this concrete underground, it had been almost half a century since the last time he had seen it. It seemed mostly the same now as it had then; the damp smell, the thin trail of algae leading to the back darkness, and that intangible low-frequency rumble he always thought he heard coming from it, the strange sound that always had made him wonder if other people were moving around in this same system too. He pulled one foot up, dug it down a little to get a strong hold on the concrete floor of the tunnel, and wondered briefly how much of the topography of the system he remembered accurately. Then he stepped up, and a few seconds later the darkness dropped behind him like a curtain.
He had brought with him a small battery-powered flashlight and, for pure whimsy’s sake, a cheap compass. In his time, he remembered there had been red painted arrows on some of the walls deeper inward, pointing out important directions-central chambers, exits, important corridors, et cetera. He wasn’t sure they would be there anymore, though, and hadn’t brought anything to mark new ones with, which he regretted slightly-probably for reasons of the horror movie archetypes he carried unwittingly in the back of his mind. As he moved further in, though, he began to recognize a few landmarks-a certain overhead pipe arrangement, the bottom of a manhole, or a distinct turn-and his feeling of peace returned. He hadn’t forgotten the layout of the system entirely; the more he saw, the more the image of the whole started to come back to him. He felt almost happy to be back here; some piece of his younger self was returning with each turn. He ran his fingers across the walls as he traveled; the touch instilled him with new life. He had come back, finally, and it suddenly felt that he had done the right thing.
There was a great deal to explore and rediscover-he wanted to reawaken all the old familiarities, and was ecstatic to see how many remained despite the passing of so many years. That was the shelf where we sat sometimes, there was the crack we used to joke about mimicking some person’s profile, and there was the little nook where we used to keep all the papers-that last one gave him slight pause. The spot was empty of papers now. He carried them all in a little worn, weatherproof case in his arms. It was a good thing; they probably would have disintegrated if left down here for so long. He always wondered how objects seem to live prolonged lives when under into human care; nature prefers to reclaim and reabsorb all things, but the touch of hands and active thought rather seems to give objects a strong will to remain.
Still, he examined the nook all over with his flashlight, searching for maybe some forgotten scrap, stuck in a dark corner somewhere, a word lost in the dark for all these years. There was nothing. He looked a second, and then a third time. In his distraction, he did not notice a few small clues coming from behind him-the increased clarity of the rumble he had heard at the opening of the sewer, and the faint shimmer of golden light that moved about on the wall before him. He did not notice anything, indeed, until his senses were practically assaulted by it.
“HALT!” a little voice shouted from behind him.
The completely-unprepared former professor jumped high enough that he very narrowly missed bumping his head against the concrete ceiling. He then turned, and was faced with quite a sight.
Standing before him was a little boy who couldn’t have been much older than eight, carrying a crude torch and wielding a piece of thin pipe like a saber, pointed at the lower chest of the former professor-the highest he could reach. His chubby cheeks were arranged in a stern look, and he stared fearlessly at the man before him. The former professor, recovering a few seconds later from the fright, now had to repress a tickle of laughter at the gruff, chubby little child before him.
“I SAID HALT!” the little boy said.
“I’m not moving!” the former professor replied, raising his arms slightly in a gesture of bemused surrender.
The little boy tilted his chin up, examining his opposite. “Good,” he said. “Are you a policeman?”
“Certainly not.”
“ ‘Cuz I’ve got orders to kill any policemen I see down here.” He brandished his little pipe with a fierce look. “Lemme see your badge.”
“I don’t have a badge.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a policeman.”
The boy’s face puckered. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Are you a construction guy? ‘Cuz Van told me he sees ‘em around sometimes”
“Are there more of you down here, then? And no, I’m not a construction guy either,” the former professor replied.
“There’s lotsa us. A whole army-we own this place.” He puffed out his chest and squared his stare at the old man, seeming to size him up for a few moments.
“How long have you all been down here?”
“Fer’ever.”
“That long?”
“Yeah.” Abruptly the boy paused, and something seemed to occur to him. He chewed on the thought for a minute, squinting at the man standing slightly bent before him, and scratching his head with his pipe. “Mister, did you come down here to die?” he finally asked.
The former professor was caught entirely off guard by the question. He stared down at the squat little child in dumbfounded silence, until it occurred to him that there was no real reason to not tell the truth.
“Yes,” he replied, half-whispering.
The boy relaxed, and smiled upward at him. “That’s all right, lotsa people come here for that.” He slid his pipe into a crude holster that looked as though it used to be someone’s hat, and offered a grubby little hand to the former professor. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everybody.”
The former professor found himself completely charmed by the gesture, the bright smile and big eyes of the child in front of him, and he took the offered hand gently, allowing himself to be lead off into the darkness.
If I can use the word "defenestration" more than five times in the next month, I believe my life will be more or less complete.