Me? Write something R? I know.
This was, once again, the product of a writing spree.
At four in the morning.
I used up eight pages of my journal, and they typed and edited it. I think I'm relatively happy with it, but it definitely needs work. Open to lots of suggestions.
Okay... here goes....
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The crowd moved like a herd of sluggish animals, making the dust kick up in low-lying clouds on the sparse path. There was a low, anticipatory murmur running through the thick line of people, occasionally broken by a child’s exclamation or a mother’s reprimand. The group slowly threaded through the barren hills, sweating under the already scorching morning sun.
Wesley was among them, walking by himself, pulling his cap down to deflect the heat. He did not have the same goal as the others. He was drawn by curiosity to follow them, to observe the marvel that he had heard of, to see the purpose of the pilgrimage.
After a while, the route emptied into a great wasteland of cracked earth with no trees in sight. Wesley worked his way toward the front of the assembly as it slowly formed a semicircle around a group of huddled men in ties and jackets. They looked over their shoulders as they talked. One of the men raised his voice, thrusting papers in a stout fellow’s face. The man next to him followed suit, brandishing a book high above his head. The stout man waved the others off, sauntering out of the circle. The others dispersed as well, save the one with the book, who tossed it into the dirt. He stared at it for a moment, chest heaving, before snatching it up and stomping off in the direction of his comrades. After a moment, the stout man walked back to the middle ground, and the murmurs of onlookers died. The stout man clapped his hand, a slight smirk on his face, before ambling off to the side. Wesley stared at the spot where the man had stood, squinting to see what was happening.
“Look! Up there!” someone in the throng shouted. Wesley turned his gaze up, and saw a glittering line accelerating toward the earth. It zoomed downward-- getting so close a few women gasped-- before it arrived with a great surge of air, stopping mere inches above the ground. At the same time, a group of men uniformed in black and carrying shiny, aluminum billy-clubs emerged and lined up in front of the spectacle. Once they had arranged themselves, a second wave aligned at Wesley’s right. They looked like hallway janitors with great brooms at the ready. Whispers began to escape the people once more.
“Excuse me,” said Wesley to one of the sweepers, his curiosity stirred by this display. “What’s happening? What is that thing the officers are guarding?”
The man looked a little startled, but answered the boy, peering at him from behind a mask of wrinkles and white beard.
“Why, that there is the Silver Rope!”
“Pardon?”
“You know,” said the man, his head wobbling a little as a thoughtful smile appeared beneath his fuzz. “The Savior’s String, the Ultimate Shortcut, Thread of God’s Garment. That, m’ boy, is the rope that leads to heaven, or so they say. No one’s quite sure who made it, or perhaps discovered it. Just know that it comes down out of the sky, and whoever manages to get a hold on it gets pulled up. Never seen again.” He ended this explanation with a curt nod.
“Well, if nobody’s ever returned, how do they know it goes to Heaven, and it’s not just attached to a… a dirigible or something?” Wesley felt foolish as he said it, but so too seemed letting some cord pull you up to God-knows-where. He contemplated whose Heaven it was the people sought, and why He or She or It would make it so easy to reach.
“Him,” said the bearded man, pointing a stubby finger at the stubby man, who was presently waiting before the guard, as the man who had first raised his voice stalked over, looking indignant, and shoved a megaphone into the stout man’s hand. “That man is Mister Paxton Derby, the one that runs the whole thing. Richest man this side of Macron River.”
Derby turned on the megaphone, which wailed as he spoke into it.
“First lot, come forward. No shoving, please!”
Before he had finished his sentence, fifty of the closest onlookers went forward. Many of them ran, pushing through the officers. Wesley went forward too, eager to get a better look. There were people of all kinds. Men in overalls and business suits shoved their way to the front, grasping and climbing as though it were their only hope. The elderly waddled their way to the fore. Some pushed their spouses or children in wheelchairs. Wesley managed to get within ten feet of the rope. People were climbing over one another, those lower down yelping as others stepped on their heads and hands. On the ground below, a woman was shrieking at a teenage girl, pushing her away. She wore furs, and her face was scarlet, whether from her temperature or her temper. An officer started shouting at her to move. When the woman began to retaliate, he went for his club, and swiftly hit her across the arm. She cried out, retreating into the crowd. The officers began blowing whistles, shoving the rest of the people back, and calling, “No more. You’ll have to wait. No more.”
“You just gonna stand there, champ?”
Jumping, Wesley shook his head, backing out of the middle ground as the officers disbanded, running to one side. Silence washed over the people again, full of anticipation. Suddenly, with a downward jerk, the cord flew up into the sky with tremendous speed. It was a breath-taking sight-- the glimmering bullet shooting up to the clouds until it was barely a speck, and soon, gone completely.
His amazement did not last. He was squinting at many tiny shapes plunging out of the blue above. As they fell faster, Wesley realized with horror that they were humans.
He had never heard such a sound. Bodies hit the ground with thuds and crunches. They lay bloody, disfigured, unmoving. One body collided with such force that it was instantly decapitated, the head bouncing and rolling away. There were only a few screams in the silence. Wesley was overcome with nausea. His breath was shallow and shaky. A few angry yells and whimpers came from the crowd, and he gaped unblinking as figures emerged from the stillness, moaning and crying, holding twisted limbs and gushing wounds. He realized these were the ones who fell soonest.
The officers who had scattered when the rope was lifted returned, jerking up the wounded and dragging them away from the site. The sweepers followed, pushing the carnage away slowly.
“You all right?”
Wesley was pulled from his stupor by the bearded man’s voice. As he turned to the man, he had to look up, and numbly discovered he had collapsed to his knees. Shaking violently, Wesley replied, “H-h-how can they… knowing that….”
The bearded man’s face was worried, but there was something else there too. He looked confused, as though Wesley’s reaction had been illogical.
“Oi, Doug!” cried one of the sweepers. With a gentle pat on the boy’s shoulder, the bearded man rushed forward to help.
Unnerved by the bearded man’s response to his state, Wesley looked to those around him. None of their faces seemed to share his distress. Several grimaced, repulsed by the bodies. A few seemed to take shallow pity on the dead, but most were unfettered by the scene, simply impatient for their turn.
He could not bear what he saw any longer. Turning from it, he began to make his way out of the throng. He had no desire to know whether men of God or science had given birth to this sick carnival. As he started down the dusty path back to town, Wesley heard Derby’s megaphone call, “Second lot, come forward.” He prayed a silent prayer for the dead to see the heaven they longed for, and another for those who must now live in hell on earth.
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This was losely inspired by the following game:
Heaven
WARNING! This game is extremely addicting. Just ask Andy (Squallz).
