Back a long, long time ago I got a bad grade and swore I wouldn't write fiction anymore. That was stupid. I lost years of failure, and now, instead of being awesome, I still have to pay my suck dues.
Oh well.
I've had a short kicking around my head for a couple of months, and I finally sat down and made myself type it up--in English this time. There's also an unfinished version in Japanese that I kinda like and may revisit later. It's based on the most disturbing nightmare I remember, so it's wicked dark and even I don't really know what it means. In it, I'm experimenting with first-person narration, symbolism, and, especially, atmosphere.
Comment and criticism appreciated.
(Teen. Strong gore and a deranged narrator. 1200 words.)
Konna yume wo mita.
(Such I have dreamed.)
--Souseki Natsume, Ten Nights' Dreams
I am driving along a narrow rural highway, somewhere in the mountains in late summer. It looks like the White Mountains, somewhere between Stow and Canaan; a thin, cracked strip of asphalt cuts through the pines and arching oaks and sunset-orange carpeted ground. Afternoon sun dapples the road and dances across my windshield.
I get the sense that something isn't quite right. It's not the wind nor the tire's song on the pavement nor the light nor--probably--the solitude. Only a premonition: do not enter the tunnel.
I turn a corner and the view to the left opens into a valley and a river for a minute before the next corner and a tunnel that takes a shortcut through the mountain. You might die in that tunnel.
Your destiny lies in the tunnel.
It's silly, of course, but I step on the brake and pull off the road and step into the warm summer air and crunch the pine needles underfoot. I had been driving with the air conditioner turned on and had missed the warm embrace of the air
Saaaa, the wind speaks through the pine boughs.
I must walk this tunnel on foot.
I grab a flashlight--even though the tunnel should be lit--and set off into the tunnel. To be sure there's nothing wrong, or whatever.
The lights are on, dim sodium-vapor yellow that drains the color from the scene and to which my eyes need half a minute to adjust. The walls and cieling are a white tile, dirty with exhaust. The light fixtures follow the seams where they meet and the floor is a paved two-lane road--double yellow, no passing--with narrow shoulders and a raised sidewalk along the right side. The tunnel curves to the right.
A breeze blows out of the tunnel, and I can smell gasoline and the deeper, darker note of diesel--odd really, modern diesel is a light blue-green, why does it smell brown? And, mixed in with that smell is something else. Hot metal? A hot copper plate with sugar caramelizing on top.
I round the corner and, yeah, I'm not getting my car through that. The entire tunnel is packed from wall to cracked wall with crashed vehicles. Amazing.
There is no sound but the pounding of the blood in my ears and a faint moan as the wind twists through the tunnel. The smart thing to do, the normal thing to do, would be to turn around and, I dunno, call the authorities or whatever, whoever, they are. But, something in this tunnel doesn't want me to leave it. Something wants to be found.
I have to get through.
And so, I approach the mess of piled up cars, and passing by the first one, learn why, yes, wearing a seatbelt is a good idea. Massive contusions and a fractured skull do not make for a pretty corpse. That's one hell of a nosebleed you had there, sir!
The cars are crunched up pretty good, so that means I have to climb. Good. I like climbing. It's more interesting than walking, anyway. So, I climb on top and look out across the carnage.
Bad pun. Sorry. I break out laughing. Really, in situations like this, what is there to do but laugh? This whole huge mess which eventually somebody is going to have to clean up, and you could be dead like the rest of them, but you're not; you're alive, the only living soul in this weird place, and the joy at that realization bubbles up, and you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
And you continue because something further along the tunnel calls to you, wants to be understood, and even when you slip off a hood and splash in a puddle and get your knees and hands wet, you keep laughing because it hurts, but it's a good hurt, because it means you're still alive.
Picking myself up and still continuing forward, I come across the flatbed truck, and now I begin to understand. Have you ever wondered if you could maybe fit a small car underneith one? Yes, you can. Just, not very well. It takes a lot of force, like the force of a couple dozen of cars behind you when it jacknifes. Enough force to open up a car just like a bear opens up a salmon or one of those crazy-sharp survival knives opens up a can of sardines. Just like the occupants.
That's interesting. I think I'll take a moment to at least pull myself together, because at least I still can. My ribcage didn't get caught up somewhere, staying put while my well-secured pelvis and car went somewhere else. The abdominal aorta is a really big artery, judging from the huge black stains visible under this hellish sodium light. I think maybe this explains that mysterious smell. Gas and diesiel and a whole lot of blood.
I think I'll revise my opinion of seat belts.
I'm about to try to find my way across when I realize something strange. The only sounds I can hear are the scrabble of my own feet, my own breath and heartbeat, and the soft moaning of the wind. There's no buzzing. There's no delicate way to say this, but I know there are coyotes, foxes, crows, vultures, and all manner of invertibrates around here that shouldn't say no to free pâte de fois Américain on scrap metal.
I feel like I'm supposed to be at a party and I suddenly realized that everyone else has gone home. Except this party is called life. I'm the only living animal here and that is not a comforting thought. Never mind destiny, or that something that wants to tell me something, I want to get out of here, this unnatural place with its unnatural light. I look forward and back. I can see the exit ahead.
The fastest way out is through. I try very hard to not panic. Panic will only get me hurt, and I need to be calm to pick my way through this mess. I can see the exit. It's not too far.
Next up-- You know what? Screw it. I'm not gonna talk about the schoolbus, other than to say that when I got past, I got my first real hint of fresh air.
I crawl towards the tunnel mouth, glowing blue in the afternoon sun. I crawl towards the truth that drew me so far. My blood pounds. I want to get out of here.
Outside, I notice a deer and she notices me. We lock eyes for a second or two, then she runs off. I'm so glad you're alive, too.
I turn back towards the tunnel, and beyond it my car and everything else in my life, as that longed-for truth finally falls on my shoulders, steel-cold and calm. All those people in there--they're kin. I did nothing for them. I look at my hands and clothes, stained with blood--not blood I shed, but blood not mine I owe. I can do nothing.
And yet, maybe... I click my lighter and turn back towards the tunnel. Feed the hungry. Give drink to the thirsty. Clothe the naked. Harbour the harbourless. Visit the sick. Ransom the captive. But does it really make a difference?
Family blood is on my hands.
