Ok, as a side ammendment to my last post: I got an idea for a slightly more extended story. Not a short-short. But I will post short-shorts on here (when I can access the ones I have saved on another computer). Let's start with this thing I came up with first.
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The ground beneath his feet was rough, pebbly; his toes scrabbled at dirt and he could feel the soft soles of his feet as they became raw. He wasn't used to such hard work, nor was he enjoying the feel of the new.
Above his head of blonde, straight hair was a murky sky of questionable intent, clouds roiling slowly as though circling him, deciding his fate. There had been no thunder or rain yet, so he was hoping...Markis closed his eyes as the thunder came after his thought, and rain suddenly drenched him, turning the pebbly ground beneath his feet to slippery, gritty mud.
He stumbled, his eyes filled with rainwater that streamed down his face. He could almost see the summit...there it was, far away and yet so close after all this time. He had nearly finished his journey. It wasn't supposed to end this way, he thought, and yet...perhaps this was better after all. What good had he been to anyone? That he had been chosen seemed now fitting, as his feet and hands began to bleed. The rainwater struck his scraped limbs, adding insult to his injury; yet he continued his climb.
He had almost reached the summit, and he felt the heat singe the hair on his face and arms as he groped for a handhold. It wasn't steep, but the slope shifted beneath him with every movement. The rocks were now burning his feet, and he felt his wounds grow larger, the pain becoming almost excruciating. The village elders would know when he took his last step, feel the mountain's rumbling cease, and Orelao would be appeased. His wrath would subside almost instantly with the passing of a young male villager, and Markis' purpose would be fulfilled. Whatever his village had done in the past ten years to upset Orelao would be erased with his death.
Except he didn't want to die. He was afraid of what might happen, and the thought of snuffing out his life so prematurely frightened him in spite of what he – and every other person in his village – had been told their entire lives. Now, he gazed out at the valleys below, rippling in the heat as his eyeballs dried out from the fumes, but continuing to water with irritation, he saw green. He saw the sparkling blue of something mysterious and incredible beyond his imagination's boundaries. And he saw the sun rising. It was time.
He snapped himself back to the present. He was to fulfill his purpose. He took the final steps to Orelao's mountaintop and smelled the flesh on the soles of his feet burning as he stood there, looking into the lake of molten lava. He averted his eyes, which were streaming with tears, and wondered how long he would feel the searing pain of his own flesh being torn from his bones. How long would he scream? Would anyone hear him at all? Would anyone miss him?
Markis felt the earth tremble beneath him and his knees nearly buckled at the pain in his feet; he pushed all the questions down. They would go unanswered. He drew a last breath, choking on the fumes spat out by the volcano, and leaped.
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