?

Log in

No account? Create an account
Arch

Losing my grip

Imagine a great weight, some hulk of iron or concrete or both, suspended over a pit so deep that only a reflected glimmer can be seen on rare occasion from its mysterious, distant end. The weight is fastened to a rope or cable, sufficient to bear the burden with the assistance of a pulley or two. Holding fast to this tether is a man. Such is his duty, his charge. A coil of slack sits next to him, just in case. Sometimes he braces and readjusts, his muscles often strain, there are even days when fatigue has threatened to claim him. Yet he stands fast, as he has learned he must over the course of time. He has grown strong and has been given strength. He has even been given rare but glorious (and needed) moments of rest along the way, when his thirst may be slaked for a time and his body may know something other than constant tension.

Days, weeks, months, years blur together in irrelevancy. Only one thing matters— the weight is held. It is said that, in the recesses of the pit, are treasures priceless, fragile, and irreplaceable: things of crystal, glass, and other stuff less sturdy and more precious. Worth protecting, worth the cost.

Then, one day, his grip slips.

No one cause that he can think of, but there's really no time to think at all. The weight is falling, falling; the coil unfurls with dizzying speed. He tries, valiantly, to grasp at the wildly whipping cord, but the friction instantly burns his hands bloody and raw. Too fast, too fast. With a combination of frantic concentration and frozen shock, he stares at the swiftly vanishing coil. Futility and inevitability become living and solid. His vision and his mind narrow to a single, fatalistic pinpoint, an oddly detached wondering:

When it finally hits, what will the crash sound like?

Comments