Stay out super late tonight
Mortimer picked burrs from his green hiking pants and the languid afternoon by humming low a tune his mother used to sing. He had forgotten the words by now as he no longer practiced Polish, but the tune remained embedded in his mind as a blissful bauble, proof of a more simple time.
Mortimer pondered this sentence as he walked on the path a few miles from civilization.
"Innocent.... a more innocent time." He said markedly.
Mortimer often formed unbiased narratives in his biased head in order to preserve an illusion of subjectivity. He believed incorrectly that he was enlightened through detachment. His rejection of ideologies had given him a swell head, so instead of enlightenment Mortimer embodied the ugliest of the seven deadly characteristics: pride.
Instead of bearing a stone slab upon his back Mortimer walked, for now, with a chip on his shoulder. He voiced this to the surrounding wilderness witnesses by changing his hum to a whistle of that old Polish lullaby.
While our tangent was not upon Mortimer's head he instead narrated a metaphor between a river that he walked beside and a time he walked in front.
It was not the strongest of metaphors so Mortimer abandoned it half developed and it was only summed up briefly in this text.
Mortimer's mind turned from the elusive nature of poetry to the sun, looking at the star for a measurement of time, not inspiration for any sonnet. He found nature sonnets cheap and, when he thought of the sentimentality implicit in such words, he broke a healthy looking branch off a tree then threw it right back at it.
"Hug yourself." Mortimer snarled.
He was smug in his reaffirmed apathy when he went back to reaffirming his high opinion of himself by reverting back to his boy scout training.
Mortimer was one of five hundred thousand men in North America to have the ego-boosting know-how of being able to tell the time by the sun and was one of sixty-five thousand, four hundred, and seventy-five men who have incorrectly measured the sun while attempting this technique, unpracticed for decades.
Mortimer was also in a smaller group that he should be proudest of all as this minority housed only him and one other man named Gulliver Mahoney. Gulliver had wandered into a cave for warmth in the dead of night, only to be eaten by a fair and protective Mother black bear. This minority that Mortimer unknowingly belonged to was former boy scouts who measured the sun incorrectly to dire consequences.
When Mortimer swayed his calculations to the middle of the fall equinox he was correct, even though he was counting on a gut feeling. Mortimer didn't know the exact date, believing that dates are constricting he never did. Were he to look in the newspaper containing the article on his death he would have known, but unfortunately Mortimer did not have the sight, and if he did he would probably use the ability to correct his error in astrology rather than satisfy any curiosity concerning the exact date of his death.
The error came about in Mortimer's estimation of degrees. If Mortimer knew the sun was 10 degrees lower than his approximation he would surely have turned back, though since the dramatic irony that is so present in this narration was not so present in the dry narration rattling through Mortimer's head he was not privy to such information. Oddly enough the thought of being lost in the dark woods did flash through the calculated angles that fueled Mortimer, though he shrugged that off believing himself destined for something bigger.
He, of course, was destined to die but, of course, he would never believe that.
Believing he had plenty of time before sunset Mortimer ventured to find a nice view and smoke a little hashish.
Oh how the sunset looked as it laid it's fiery head down to rest on the Earth's genuine pine needle stuffed pillow. Oh how the last bird chirped the sun away with dwindling vigor until defeated by the choke hold of the sandman. Oh how the hashish made Mortimer sink into the habitat like a smiling stranger in another country. You can take your shoes off in our house.
"Where are my shoes?"
Mortimer snapped out of the trance he had sunk into and it was dark. He felt the forest floor for his boots and while brushing around he knocked one off the cliff then almost fell off while trying to grab the laces. He watched it fall ten feet into darkness then listened for another twenty seconds before accepting his shoes silent fate. He laced up his one remaining boot and then wrapped his other foot with first aid bandages and cotton. He looked as though his foot we're broken and his mind unconsciously went for the sympathy vote and caused Mortimer to limp on it.
Once that problem was solved Mortimer started wondering where he was. He remembered sitting back and waxing poetic about nature and was quick to blame it on the hash as if all the prying eyes in the dark were silently accusing him of being hypocritical. Of course if he weren't stoned he would quickly jump to the side of nature poetry and defend it to his very bone. Mortimer refused to ever be embarrassed. Even lost in a dark forest he was more concerned about his precarious grip on his self-knowledge than his needle in the haystack macrocosm of a situation.
He looked up at the moon and cursed it for not working the same way as the sun, as if that would help him. He took a minute to compose himself, he looked around for the path he came in on but it was barely a path in the daylight.
"OK, OK, OK." Mortimer assured himself.
He looked up at the stars.
"OK, OK. North. North star."
Mortimer forgot that he had a compass.
"North.... North!" He yelled and pointed to a bright star that was not the North star.
"Haha! Mortimer... you sly dog." He knew saying that aloud anywhere else would have made him look like a fool but out there, it made him feel up for trudging through the dark woods towards the brightest star in view.
Owls hooted at Mortimer like construction workers and distant wolf howls gave a face to the fear that chilled his bones. The darkness made the woods a blanket, an impenetrable fog not made for day creatures. Mortimer tread carefully making his progress slow and his mind spiraled deeper and deeper into narrations involving twisted ankles, mountain cats, bears and werewolves.
There was a part of him that kept trying to comfort his forlorn mind with reassuring hopes of rescue parties dispatched to find the quirky and slick mystery man. In truth, Mortimer was not discovered missing until his remains were found in the middle of July by a middle aged divorce lawyer who was out jogging. I implore you to feel for the colony of maggots that was displaced when Mortimer's body was removed rather than the arrogant Laodicean that they made their home.
A rustle in the bushes made Mortimer stop in his tracks. He didn't turn around, as if not looking at the looming beast will make it go away. The looming beast (groundhog) rustled the leaves again and Mortimer took off. He would not stick around to be eaten. He leapt in large steps to avoid logs or brambles that might catch his feet. His sight was limited to such that his eyes were practically closed, though when a tree jumped into view he did have time to avoid it. The adrenaline was pumping and Mortimer was laughing and for the first time since it was dark, truly confident again. He was running on air, nothing could stop him as he galloped over miles and miles of forest. He felt his leading foot leave the air and it took several seconds for Mortimer to realize that it was no longer blissful vigor that removed his feet from the ground but instead the ground suddenly being absent. Mortimer was falling off a one hundred and twenty four foot cliff. The adrenaline carried through from the beast attack to his falling and Mortimer died as he lived, blindly in ignorant confidence.
Mortimer pondered this sentence as he walked on the path a few miles from civilization.
"Innocent.... a more innocent time." He said markedly.
Mortimer often formed unbiased narratives in his biased head in order to preserve an illusion of subjectivity. He believed incorrectly that he was enlightened through detachment. His rejection of ideologies had given him a swell head, so instead of enlightenment Mortimer embodied the ugliest of the seven deadly characteristics: pride.
Instead of bearing a stone slab upon his back Mortimer walked, for now, with a chip on his shoulder. He voiced this to the surrounding wilderness witnesses by changing his hum to a whistle of that old Polish lullaby.
While our tangent was not upon Mortimer's head he instead narrated a metaphor between a river that he walked beside and a time he walked in front.
It was not the strongest of metaphors so Mortimer abandoned it half developed and it was only summed up briefly in this text.
Mortimer's mind turned from the elusive nature of poetry to the sun, looking at the star for a measurement of time, not inspiration for any sonnet. He found nature sonnets cheap and, when he thought of the sentimentality implicit in such words, he broke a healthy looking branch off a tree then threw it right back at it.
"Hug yourself." Mortimer snarled.
He was smug in his reaffirmed apathy when he went back to reaffirming his high opinion of himself by reverting back to his boy scout training.
Mortimer was one of five hundred thousand men in North America to have the ego-boosting know-how of being able to tell the time by the sun and was one of sixty-five thousand, four hundred, and seventy-five men who have incorrectly measured the sun while attempting this technique, unpracticed for decades.
Mortimer was also in a smaller group that he should be proudest of all as this minority housed only him and one other man named Gulliver Mahoney. Gulliver had wandered into a cave for warmth in the dead of night, only to be eaten by a fair and protective Mother black bear. This minority that Mortimer unknowingly belonged to was former boy scouts who measured the sun incorrectly to dire consequences.
When Mortimer swayed his calculations to the middle of the fall equinox he was correct, even though he was counting on a gut feeling. Mortimer didn't know the exact date, believing that dates are constricting he never did. Were he to look in the newspaper containing the article on his death he would have known, but unfortunately Mortimer did not have the sight, and if he did he would probably use the ability to correct his error in astrology rather than satisfy any curiosity concerning the exact date of his death.
The error came about in Mortimer's estimation of degrees. If Mortimer knew the sun was 10 degrees lower than his approximation he would surely have turned back, though since the dramatic irony that is so present in this narration was not so present in the dry narration rattling through Mortimer's head he was not privy to such information. Oddly enough the thought of being lost in the dark woods did flash through the calculated angles that fueled Mortimer, though he shrugged that off believing himself destined for something bigger.
He, of course, was destined to die but, of course, he would never believe that.
Believing he had plenty of time before sunset Mortimer ventured to find a nice view and smoke a little hashish.
Oh how the sunset looked as it laid it's fiery head down to rest on the Earth's genuine pine needle stuffed pillow. Oh how the last bird chirped the sun away with dwindling vigor until defeated by the choke hold of the sandman. Oh how the hashish made Mortimer sink into the habitat like a smiling stranger in another country. You can take your shoes off in our house.
"Where are my shoes?"
Mortimer snapped out of the trance he had sunk into and it was dark. He felt the forest floor for his boots and while brushing around he knocked one off the cliff then almost fell off while trying to grab the laces. He watched it fall ten feet into darkness then listened for another twenty seconds before accepting his shoes silent fate. He laced up his one remaining boot and then wrapped his other foot with first aid bandages and cotton. He looked as though his foot we're broken and his mind unconsciously went for the sympathy vote and caused Mortimer to limp on it.
Once that problem was solved Mortimer started wondering where he was. He remembered sitting back and waxing poetic about nature and was quick to blame it on the hash as if all the prying eyes in the dark were silently accusing him of being hypocritical. Of course if he weren't stoned he would quickly jump to the side of nature poetry and defend it to his very bone. Mortimer refused to ever be embarrassed. Even lost in a dark forest he was more concerned about his precarious grip on his self-knowledge than his needle in the haystack macrocosm of a situation.
He looked up at the moon and cursed it for not working the same way as the sun, as if that would help him. He took a minute to compose himself, he looked around for the path he came in on but it was barely a path in the daylight.
"OK, OK, OK." Mortimer assured himself.
He looked up at the stars.
"OK, OK. North. North star."
Mortimer forgot that he had a compass.
"North.... North!" He yelled and pointed to a bright star that was not the North star.
"Haha! Mortimer... you sly dog." He knew saying that aloud anywhere else would have made him look like a fool but out there, it made him feel up for trudging through the dark woods towards the brightest star in view.
Owls hooted at Mortimer like construction workers and distant wolf howls gave a face to the fear that chilled his bones. The darkness made the woods a blanket, an impenetrable fog not made for day creatures. Mortimer tread carefully making his progress slow and his mind spiraled deeper and deeper into narrations involving twisted ankles, mountain cats, bears and werewolves.
There was a part of him that kept trying to comfort his forlorn mind with reassuring hopes of rescue parties dispatched to find the quirky and slick mystery man. In truth, Mortimer was not discovered missing until his remains were found in the middle of July by a middle aged divorce lawyer who was out jogging. I implore you to feel for the colony of maggots that was displaced when Mortimer's body was removed rather than the arrogant Laodicean that they made their home.
A rustle in the bushes made Mortimer stop in his tracks. He didn't turn around, as if not looking at the looming beast will make it go away. The looming beast (groundhog) rustled the leaves again and Mortimer took off. He would not stick around to be eaten. He leapt in large steps to avoid logs or brambles that might catch his feet. His sight was limited to such that his eyes were practically closed, though when a tree jumped into view he did have time to avoid it. The adrenaline was pumping and Mortimer was laughing and for the first time since it was dark, truly confident again. He was running on air, nothing could stop him as he galloped over miles and miles of forest. He felt his leading foot leave the air and it took several seconds for Mortimer to realize that it was no longer blissful vigor that removed his feet from the ground but instead the ground suddenly being absent. Mortimer was falling off a one hundred and twenty four foot cliff. The adrenaline carried through from the beast attack to his falling and Mortimer died as he lived, blindly in ignorant confidence.