Stump's Descent - A Too Short Story

The leaven dust carries plumes of death’s musk from caverns deep below. Yet, I move with stealth and determination, knowing any moment could bring a sure and sudden end. Light and color bleed in from some torturous path unknown to human eyes, painting the walls and floor with just enough sun to remind me what I’ve left behind. Beyond my sight is hearing; so I listen to my wisp-clank, wisp-clank, wisp-clank of asymmetric syncopated steps. The familiar sounds blending perfectly with the occasional scurry of small animal or stone’s movement from the dark; the sounds ever remind me, though I am lonely, I am not alone.
Helena has called to me gain and for her love I have traveled this path. She can not know what travail between her desire and fulfillment stands for me to bear. This burden I must carry alone. And carry it I do. The path slopes down on rough cut steps, carved from living stone, sweating foul and ominous. The path turns to skirt a large underground cavernous ravine. Clearly the source of musk and omen; the demonic source below speaks with an ancient voice, at memory imprints long lost to my spoken word.
The stone’s sweat now collects, combines and creates rivulets to accompany my slow and sure descent. Helena, dearest Helena, how is it that you care for this crusty and imperfect soul. I’ve often wondered as you hold me near, why and for how long will you trust and embrace me, accepting my love in exchange for such beautiful gifts as you offer me, caring for me.
The trail splits, not in two but up the center with large missing pieces of stone on either side. Neither path safe, the earth’s sweat has worn its way through and now I must choose. The side nearest the wall is missing most, and the holes show no ending or step hold so I take the side nearest the ravine. Each step forward I gently touch with my boot, tap twice, give little weight, then retreat to be sure my lighting and judgment will reveal no trick before I commit to the stony path before me. I’m nearly across the washed out portion when I see above and behind me the trickle of stone’s sweat and the full washed out stone beneath where I was standing when asked to choose which path. Had I taken the wall’s side path, there would have been nothing beneath to support my weight. Life is funny to offer such a choice, a fool’s trick to temp the coward into death. Again I smell and am reminded of death. The descent is not over.

A Stumpy Poem

slow knarled dense and thick,
stand for nothing, fall for anything
live by the board, die by the skewer, fork, and pin
-da stump