Crypt And Puck (Part II)
January 30, 2012, by Homme de Sept-Îles
continued from Crypt and Puck
Under and beyond, a sifted spirit sang. Shifts of digital aroma klept or klamber, concrete dungeon, slabs of petrified kelp and the entrance beyond.
Through that stone aqua overhang.
Understand this locked lake drained to cracked face of a giant’s dust. Slaked osmosis ovium.
Innocent names, fabrics of another century, the spoof sentry spits sinister, drools venom, shadows and joy, the splinter of a heavy, doomed chain.
What movement was a sort of green magma. And the flitter hint of that spoof sentry.
She and her ear canal.
Stepped forward something.
Descent infernal.
Colder. It’s colder, she thought. She reached for wall and found none. She shuddered, her imbalance stopping her. Waiting for the goose pebble flesh to warm, she listened.
She listened for drip and heard none. Her sense of smell was negated.
She felt the air move, a large oxygen vacuum around her.
It moved less. And then was still.
She was a listener again. Then she was on the move.
Down the wall-less staircase.
One sure step and then another. She could see the steps. They were deep-sea and cave-dark green.
The puck was an orb undulate in her left pocket. The flashlight shape remained in the other.
The air followed her.
The steps came to an end.
From here, she saw the old scoreboard; rent plastics and shorn otherworld woods.
Stone hanging. Pipes, once-neat. Rooms, she fancied, beyond the corridors. The splotch or dim glow, greens of several kinds, were what helped her see. Old sea-creatures devolved to soft masses, mooshed jellies able to synthesize something into vague latrine memory lights.
It was colder. Colder.
Back here again. She knew where north led to warmth. Where south led to an endless staircase. And where east was wicked.
Somewhere, about fourteen miles down, a sentry stirred.
To be continued (Sheila)
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