This week's picture prompt is by Nate Robert a photographer on Flicker. This was taken in the John Forrest National Park, near Perth, Western Australia. This is the Swan View Tunnel.
Another dip into Tricky's tales and developing the story. (Last Tricky Tale was on Week 218)
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Tricky
kept pulling herself forward through the mud and grit. She knew this tunnel had
to come out somewhere – being that it wasn’t full of water it wouldn’t be the
sea!
At least she knew that for certain. She didn’t know
much else, like: how much longer would this tunnel go on for? What sort of
tunnel was it? She knew it was putrid, although her body was too weak to keep
on retching. It must have been a sewer outlet for the people that lived in the
bunkers.
She realized she could see the shape of the gravel she
was crawling over and the outline of the walls at either side. She looked
ahead. Was it? Yes it was; it was light. Just knowing that gave her a boost and
she moved forward faster as the light grew.
Tricky paused for a moment and took a deep breath in,
reaching out for the energy the light provided and drawing it in. She felt her
limbs strengthen and came up onto her knees, tucking her ragged skirts under
them so they wouldn’t get more damaged.
As she got closer to the opening, the tunnel started
to take another shape. There were defined bricks shaping into an arched roof.
What was this tunnel then, if not a sewer? She really had no idea, and probably
no one left on the landmass did either, being that centuries had passed since
it had been used for its original purpose.
When she finally made it outside and turned to look at
it, she saw the peak of the brickwork and a cross imprinted on it. Had this
been a church? Had she been saved by a church? Tricky couldn’t help but let out
the guffaw that rose up. She stood there cackling at the prospect. She also
giggled at the idea that it had turned into a sewer – or had that happened
before the shift? Either way, it was ironic and amusing.
It would be one to tell John Thatcher, they’d have a
good chuckle over that – should she ever be lucky enough to cross paths with
him again. She hoped she would. But there was no telling. As soon as they knew
she had escaped they would bring everything to bear to capture her again,
especially now, with what she knew and where she was going.
The thought crossed her mind that they had let her
escape. It filled her with panic and dread. What if this was a ploy for them to
find her cohorts? What if this was some kind of decoy for something else yet
unseen? What if they were watching her this very minute?
She whipped her head around, suddenly terrified, but
there were only trees, multitudes of them, and she sighed, turning it into a
longer exhale. She reached out with her weak energy trails and they responded
by flooding her with their green energy light. She inhaled as much as she
could. It wasn’t yet enough to heal her, but it was enough to enable her on the
next part of her journey.
There was a screech overhead. She ducked down as
though she could somehow disappear into the ground, scanning the sky for the
creature that had sent out its warning, and then she heard a flapping sound in
a tree to her left.
It was Melvin. She’d never been so relieved to see a bird
in her life, although a peregrine falcon was a bit more than a bird.
He squawked again when she looked at him, and swooped
down low over her head into the trees on the other side. He was guiding her
out.
She made a note to thank Safa once she raised enough
energy to get into Medie and contact her.
Melvin squawked again.
‘Alright, alright, I’m coming, keep your feathers on!’
Tricky rushed off into the sanctuary of the trees,
following his flaps through the dense forest.
Just a quickie.
ReplyDeleteCHARNEL
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This tunnel of filth, this feculent pit
Where blind hubris has brought me to die,
Has walls built of corpses. Helpless, I lie
‘Mong the bones and the rot and the shit.
“Don’t go there,” she warned, “the dead move inside.
And I’d rather have you than the gold.”
A living cadaver stinking with mould
Tears soft strips from my brain as I die.
Ashes to ordure, dust to sticky mud.
Bony fingers sharp shred my brain-flesh.
Inside my dead skull they pummel and thresh.
The ground wet not from water but blood.
You write dark horror very well, thanks for entering.
Delete