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The Wall At Croaker Pass

The booming thunder rolled across the savannah with an expectation of truthful destiny. Curry Tangle risked a glance behind at the endless sea of grass and dark horizon in afternoon squall. His shadow was tall and the grass accented the flow of beaten down grass behind him, in his footsteps, his current.

Curry looked forward to the wall of approaching mist and sighed. He was near Croaker Pass and Toadstool Squash, for the most part he had depleted the supplies that had gotten him half the distance. At exactly designed crossroads of grass, rain mist and shadow he stopped. The wall of mist near Croaker Pass was thick and like tempered shaped stone. Curry watched the shifting surface between clear paths and dreamy veil. There were shadows in the mist, crawling viscous and sleek. He put his hand into the roiling fog then withdrew it, blood, not his own, a thick syrupy soup coated his hand.

Curry turned and followed the wall of smoke west, never crossing the line mindful of the breach.

Blood borne to quests unbidden he thought as he moved west, unbidden to the mercies of fate. Curry would accept the verdict as he began his journey toward sylvan wilds and distant glory.

Story by:

Ron Koppelberger

will806095@bellsouth.net

submitted at 8:13am

15 March 2012

Ron Koppelberger's web:

Farthermostdream.blogspot.com