"Perfection" by Suzannah Carrick

Setting Sketch

Brightness.  Not only the sun, that dazzled like a ball of silver sparks in the sky, but the glimmering, gleaming, glittering from every direction.  His feet sank into shimmering pin-prick size sparkles.  It was no desert.  A little way beyond sprouted a grove of bronze-barked trees, decked with creamy leaves and exploding with yellow blossom.  In the distance, he saw the rippled sheen of water smooth as molten glass, and cliffs of dark, deep gemstones that glowed and fanned with rainbows.

            He walked towards them, filling his lungs with honey-scented air, swinging his arms and feeling that other sun warm upon his skin.  No sweaty humidity, no scorched dryness.  Perfection.  A spicy breeze feathered past his cheek.  His feet left the path and waded through blue grass that crunched, then straightened as he moved his foot away.  He was entranced.  The luscious pool caught his stare, and he could not wrench his eyes away.  Without realising it, he began to run, gently at first then faster and faster.  Sprinting at a speed that normally left him doubled up and panting, clutching his stitch and listening to the pounding of blood against his skull.  But running was easy.  The bright countryside streamed by as though of its own accord.  He reached the pool.

            One foot splashed into the shallows, fingertips of clear water shooting into the air.  The other one followed it, but he did not stop.  His headlong rush continued.  Scooping the water apart with his hands he propelled himself forward with energy-drenched speed.  Up to his waist, he took another step and…

            His toes slipped through the place where ground should be and kept going.  Shooting downward through nothing and dragging the rest of his body after them.  Dragging his head underwater.  He watched a large bubble from his mouth and tiny bubbles from his hair wobble upwards to the sunlight.  Terror elbowed the honeyed air from his mind, and in an instant, his mind had assessed the situation.

            No, the river bed had not disappeared.  Nor had it changed in substance.  It had simply ended.  The unlucky foot had stepped over the edge of the world, and kept going.  And because it was the world’s edge, there was nothing to stop him falling forever.  No bottom, no wonderland.  Just black, and the frosty cold already scratching his toes.  Questions of logic entered his mind but he had no time to fathom them now.  Only seconds separated him from that endless fall.  Quick.  Think. Think. 

            His hands scrabbled for purchase as the ground slid away beneath them.  They thwacked against a sharp dagger of rock and he grasped it and clung on.  His fall halted abruptly and he nearly wrenched his arm from its socket.  His mind swirled.  His legs kicked out at nothingness.  His fingers bled.  Curls of blood rose like smoke through the water.

            Gripping the stone with both hands he pulled himself up, feeling it slice deeper into his flesh.  He needed to breathe.  The heady lack of air purled in his head and he stumbled.  Then his head broke the surface and gasped in the honey-scented air by the lungful.  Once he was several tottering steps away from the edge, he looked down at his severed fingers.  But the blood had gone.  The bone-deep slashes had healed and nothing but a spidery silver scar remained.  Surprised, he wandered over to the bank and sat down.  Flexing each finger and pinching them.  Shaking his head, he inhaled the honeyed scent.  It clouded and wafted through his mind.  The desperate struggle a few minutes ago already seemed a lifetime away.  Getting up, he glanced back the way he had come.  He should go.  He must return to that bleaker world again.