Plane

You are on a plane. Standing still, looking over endless dead terrain. Alien and entirely unreal, there is no earthly curvature to be observed. The sky is an orange and red, a setting sun illuminates sickly clouds that seem to stand still. From your vantage point, you can spot a small incline, a mound a few meters tall, and atop its lonely peak is placed a single stone, no taller than a person. Due to the distance, you are much too far away to decipher any detail beyond this. You become intrigued by this stone. It draws you, calling, whispering, the silent demand. You are incapable of forming cohesive thoughts, but rather a string of simple words. Want. Need. Must. Will. These words fog your brain, not so much a violet reflection, but a bitter peace that smears about your conscious. Like a simple hiss, or a sentient wind, breathing its simplicity into your ears.

Your first step is harsh, agonizing, but fulfilling in every fashion. The pain, not quite a sharp, staggering blow, but a more subtle slithering of discomfort, coursing over your flesh like a shy fluttering, a reminder, more than a punishment. With this step, all cognitive awareness dissipates. It is no longer a crooking finger in the distance, a reasonable voice in the mind. It’s a hum. A slight tinge. Its gravity is growing immense; it’s attraction like a magnet, pulling you more and more.

The next several steps are now echoes of the initial pain, but substantially more violent. No longer is it a whisper, but it is a groan. Like an agonized lightning bolt through your primordial spine, it sharply cracks its way to your toes and reflects back to your head. The taste of blood is apparent, drowning. Metallic and unreal, the motivation to continue is paramount.

You surge forward now. Enduring the pain for a few more steps, you realize that the sun almost completely obscured by the clouds. A few more steps, but the pain becomes dominative. It cripples your weak legs, and your body crumbles to the ground. With your searing arms, you crawl, digging your fingers into the harsh, clumpy soil. It’s dead, similar to sand, but hot. You pull yourself forward a few more feet.

Years go by. You reach the base of the incline. The rock’s voice is now clear, concise, and imperative. With its newfound singing it encourages, persuades you to move forward, to climb. The sun has yet to sink below the horizon. The perception of minutes, days, and years, are now conjoined in one effortless stream of time, no longer separated by measurable units, but my measurements of pain. The hill calls, and you continue your abhorred climb. The top is near. With a few months’ work, you claw your way to the surface, agonized, caked in your own blood from years prior. Your fingernails are worn off, your flesh seared by the ever present solar menace. You summon the energy to bring yourself to your feet, weaving and almost crippled, you reach your hand to the rock. Your index finger brushes its rough textures. Now visible is a carving. Unknown to you, it gently trembles. Now a voice is heard, not from any particular direction. It surrounds you like a fog.

Now no longer aware of how much time has been spent in contact with this rock, your hand finally falls to your side. Weak, frail, and worn to the bone, you see no more purpose in the venture. You collapse to your knees, leaning against the rock, in its shade, your eyes are able to close.

With a shudder, the eyes peel open.

You are on a plane. Standing still, looking over endless dead terrain. Alien and entirely unreal, there is no earthly curvature to be observed. The sky is an orange and red, a setting sun illuminates sickly clouds that seem to stand still. From your vantage point, you can spot a small incline, a mound a few meters tall, and atop its lonely peak is placed a single stone, no taller than a person. Due to the distance, you are much too far away to decipher any detail beyond this. You become intrigued by this stone. It draws you, calling, whispering, the silent demand. You are incapable of forming cohesive thoughts, but rather a string of simple words. Want. Need. Must. Will. These words fog your brain, not so much a violet reflection, but a bitter peace that smears about your conscious. Like a simple hiss, or a sentient wind, breathing its simplicity into your ears.

Plane

Visceral Creations

Kent, United States

  • Artist
    Notes
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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