ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I am a gradute of the University of Missouri - Kansas City in both creative writing and multimedia. Currently I run my own film & multimedia business in the Orlando area and work on my novels and short stories in my spare time. My hope is to one day exchange multimedia for a writing career before I kick off. [June 2005]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (2) Missing - A Short Story (Short Stories) Passing your days by doing only enough to satisfy what is expected can lead to a life not worth remembering. [1,475 words] [Literary Fiction] The Blues And The Greens (Short Stories) A story of waking up from under the electric blanket of modern life. [1,804 words] [Literary Fiction]
The Clearing 2001 Steven Gilbreath
Steven Carl Gilbreath
(321) 206-3643
steven@neofex.com
545 Daniels Avenue
Orlando, FL 32801-4028
The Clearing
by Steven Carl Gilbreath
The car skidded to a halt between two parking slabs, tires crunching and piling up murky gravel.He got out in a rush, slipping on the loose stones.“It doesn’t mean anything,” gonged, an ear-throbbing clock tower bell.The car door creaked then banged, half a chalky shoe print in the middle of it. The gongs rang to his feet, kicking up gravel in splashes, leaving scars where the gray ground showed through.Dust launched off the tiny stones to escape with the afternoon air.He saw enough to stumble, but all else was flashing white; prickles behind the eyes.His blood ran thick, pounding its way out, and his chest filled up with it.The warmth from the falling sun pressed in from all sides, but it could not break through.
‘Nature trail 1.2 miles’ read the hand painted sign.His fist slammed into the word ‘trail’, attempting to scatter the letters, but it brought only sharp pain and a splinter.Picking the sliver out with stabs, the man stood at the forest’s mouth while memories slammed into one another, all moving too fast to see clearly, broken by the gongs.The green trees ahead formed a wall that swallowed up much of the light.He started down the leafy throat, the trail stretching under him, followed by flashes he could not stop.
Soon his feet grew heavy with every stride until he was forced to push out the blinding white enough to look down.Mud had built up in clumps, and turning his head he saw it everywhere.A muggy and decayed scent clung to him as buzzing dove in and out.Forest surrounded him now but he was outside it.The path of mud made his continued plodding difficult, but he stomped on, flinging earthy pieces out ahead of him.
Not sure if it was a root, stone, or slick mud he went down on his stomach, his hands spread out before him.The gongs bubbled up through the filth and the skin on the back of his head rumbled.The fall did not change him and after getting up and digging muck from his face he kept on.He left the trail behind as he tore through the wood with branches whipping him.The flashes burned up the undergrowth until he emerged into a clearing.A lone tree rested in its middle, the only opposition.The tree was limbless, leafless, lifeless.Vines clung to it, pulling.Getting closer he saw the holes where insects had their try.A dirty prodding finger broke off a spongy chunk and flashes of motion spiraled with it.The jumble of tiny legs that remained recessed farther into the once-tree now that light and air hit them.The tree was dead, standing only until something brought it down.
His fists were pulled tight, pounding through the outer skin.Stepping back, he let his feet work, breaking more from the tree.The gongs threw his whole body behind his shoulder, breaking through one side.Out of control, he tumbled to the splintered ground.A tree limb poked him in the leg and as he stood it was held shaking in his hand.He swung into the crumbly flesh.Gong! Went his mind.It doesn’t mean anything,Crack! echoed across the space again and again until chips floated into his eyes and throat.Still the tree stood waiting, a stiff and defiant corpse.He worked as sweat slid the dirt off him in streaks of tan until all the jumbled memories burned up with the heat of his body.Each swing sent shocks through him, loosening the blood, allowing it to flow quickly enough to ignite muscle.He swung until everything below his head was a blur, a heavy confusion keeping him grounded.The last chop tore the limb from him, to let it rest in a pile of wooden skin - the final gong.Exhausted, he propped his soul against the naked tree with its core still breathing.Layer by layer, from outside in, the tree had fought him, but with a ragged body resting against it, it too fell to rest.The man laid down on the smooth grain, shudders shaking his limbs and trunk.Laughing had leapt out despite the woody dust and cracked like the birth of thunder.He was alone now that the tree was down and no one heard.Air ran out in him for sound and he lay there rocking the tree with tiny vibrations.
Finally he rolled off and stood up, flakes of brown pealing off his clothes and mixing with the splinters.He wondered if the tree had given in somehow, grown tired by taking in his thick blood and blinding white and gongs.Some part of him believed that; the part that crouched down to pat the bare grain and say, “Thank you”.And so the man left the clearing caked in drying mud and callused by the tree that let him win.
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