ChickenShark
New Member
This is a story I had started over the summer and have been adding onto it over the past months. Of course there will be some errors, such as misspellings, fragments, etc. However this is what you guys are for. In the event you find one of those, please notify me by replying or by a PM. If you have the time, please take it to read it all and comment.
Anyways, hears the story:
This is a land forgotten by time. A land least traveled, if traveled at all. A land no man has laid eyes on nor treads foot on. Distant thunders of the booming voices of creatures now unknown. It is dawn here. The early rays of the sun ignite the morning dew with a red flame, making it seem as if the trees were bleeding. Amongst the cool mist, something stirs. But we must leave this land for now and set our sights, and minds, on another strange land.
In a hotel room, next to the confuse streets of New York City, a man busied himself to pack his bags. He was not without reason for this; he could hear another sound over the restless ambiance of the street, sirens. The man fidgeted even more with his bags, he new he had not much time left now. "Damn," the man exclaimed after a peek at his watch. The street lights cast eerie shadows across the man's flushed, hobbled form, bent over stuffing everything he thought he would need into his bags. The hotel room was in quite mess, articles of clothing strewn across a once delicately made bed, drawers were ripped out of the dressers and nightstands. The man lifts his head up, like a dog or cat if they heard their masters calling their names, he could hear them coming.
He could hear shouts now coming from the stairwell. He knew he must hurry, or he could become trapped. "But I won't," he said after such a thought, glancing at his bottle of whiskey perched on the dresser. He grabbed his notebook, quickly fashioning a pencil to it, and shoved it into his faded leather rucksack, along with other belongings. The shouts were becoming more defined now. The man slung his rucksack over his shoulder and scrambled for his duffle. Snatching his whiskey and cigarette case along with a handkerchief on the way out, he slammed the door shut not locking it he knew there wasn't any reason now.
On his way out he could hear footsteps stumbling behind him a loud "There he is, get 'em!" was uttered. This is what he was waiting for. Fumbling the whiskey out of his pocket he twisted the cork out, took a quick swig and stuffed the handkerchief in attempting to light it with the lighter out of the cigarette case he held it there until it caught aflame. He stole a look aft of him, in time to see five stumbling men burst out from the corner. Turning around and backpedaling he through the whiskey down the hall. The alcoholic beverage, being flammable, burst into flames, scorching the embroidered carpet. He turned back around in time to plant his face on a hotel door. He stumbled backwards, stunned and shocked, but recovered quickly, quicker than the souls down the hall, he thought, and turned, sprinting, for the stairwell.
As his feet neared the bottom he leapt, saving three extra steps. He decided to walk the rest of the way to the street, waving down a taxi "East docks," he told the cab driver. He climbed inside, not unshouldering his luggage; he new it would be a short drive. From inside the cab, he watched the streetlamps streak by, the ones ahead rivaling the dazzling stars for dominance over the night sky. Eventually he heard the smooth asphalt metamorphose into a rougher pavement; the crackling of crushed glass could be heard. But he heard something else above the miniscule sounds, sirens. As they were nearing a bend, he told the driver to stop and get out. The cab driver, of course, refused to do so. So, the man presented a twenty dollar bill. Now, of course, the cab driver accepted, and seemingly happy, he stepped out of the car.
After some time of getting it turned around. The man grabbed a cobblestone from the road, and set it atop the gas peddle. The taxi lurched forward, gaining speed. Now the man unshouldered his rucksack and rummaged through a little bit finding another personal item, his revolver. Taking aim, the man glanced at the police cars speeding ahead of him; they won't be speeding for long, the man thought. He fired, the shot hit its mark exactly, the back left wheel. It was good thing the cab driver wasn't still there that moment, because after that the car turned, skidding, and fell on its side. He tucked the revolver back into his rucksack, and turned to continue his journey. Behind him he could hear the screeches of tires, crunching of metal and angry shouts.
* * *
As he walked, the buildings loomed over him, gloomily; the expression "the walls have eyes" could be at a better use here. Eventually, the walls changed from brick to soulless concrete; from concrete to cold metal. He could see the cranes, looking quite eerie up ahead. It had begun to thunder now, and with every lightning strike, the world lit up in explicit detail, the rust on the warehouses, oil stains on the concrete, only to be flashed back into mystery the next moment. The light drizzle had begun to turn the rucksack from a drab tan to a dark brown. His footsteps squeaked and squelched as he drudged on.
Finally, he reached the docks. The thick, salty scent of the ocean, the sound of pounding waves, this time there were no sirens to rush his movement or thoughts.
As he clambered across the rickety gangplank, he was greeted by a friendly voice.
"Hello, long time no see, Jenks"
"Pelle," He replied quizzically as he scrambled the rest of the way up the gang plank.
"Yeah, now let's get you settled in a room so we can tour the ship."
Pelle was a squat little man; he barely came close to two thirds of Jenks' height, yet was bout twice his width.
The thought of sitting down made him realize for the first time feeling the dragging weight on his shoulder by the duffle and rucksack.
Entering the small cabin, Jenks noticed this would be quite a stretch from the hotel suite. The bed was only about twice as wide as his duffle. After relieving himself of his burdens, he looked out the window he could see the city lights flickering in the distance. A fresh sea breeze blew through, sending a chill down his back, even though he was wearing a heavy trench coat. Jenks got up and shut the porthole, locking it. He new he did not want to wake up to a frigid oceanic breeze in the night.
Jenks felt safe there, in the cabin, with his notebook cached safely in the knapsack. He heard a knock on his door. He was a little disheartened to leave such an embracing place. The knock came again, this time a barrage of fists. Jenks knew it was Pelle, by his cantankerous nature.
Jenks left the cabin, following the short, stout man, who seemed to barely fit through the narrow corridor, his sashay, however, would make the hallway burst, Jenks thought. The corridor, lined with doors, seemed ingeniously designed to give the viewer mollified state, or boredom, Jenks remarked. First they where the wooden cabin doors, then they gradually grew scarcer to the monotonous metal hatches and gauntly stairs.
They emerged from the deck, seeing instantly the placid waters, its depths exuberant with all the treasures and pitfalls, and the glossy wooden beams of the deck. That together with the wind, rippling their cloths as they walked, would be a truly exulting theme.
Jenks could smell the sea, the air congested with salt. He walked over to the railing; he could feel the slick deck boards, firm, yet still seemingly unstable, with each step. Putting his hands on the railing, Jenks felt the smooth, cold paint and the rust, the rough pattern across the rail. He felt Pelle, grabbing his hand with haste. After which, they began to burrow back under the ship's deck. The rust on the staircase slowly degenerated with each step. He could no longer feel the hard, unmoving metal stairs, now he could feel the carpet, caressing the bottoms of his shoes.
Pelle was dragging him imperiously nearer to the engine room. After several steep staircases, one in which Jenks almost fell trying to keep up with the stout, yet rather quick, man. With each staircase the thumping of the pistons, the rambling of the generators, and the heat of the fires started to grow. The pistons were nearly unbearable now. The loud pops of the pistons shooting forward, the hiss of the gas and steam escaping, soon, it they became loud enough to be felt in his chest, it seemed as though his heart had started beating to this mechanical tune. He was sure his unrest was showing on his face.
"Oh, stop it, we haven't gotten within twenty meters of the thing; see what it feels like then." Pelle said, an impudent air was blatantly upon him. The remark made Jenks want to speak out in protest, but thought better of it to keep his gallant and amiable nature.
They had gotten to the portal of the room, and Jenks was starting to get used to the thump of the pistons and other mechanical noises seeping from the door. Pelle, unperturbed by the constant, and consistent, noises opened the portal and ambled inside. The unkempt workers seemed completely undisturbed by their entering, and continued on with their work. They walked past the acute, fidgety movements of the machines. Jenks was even afraid to speak, the shockwaves of each alteration transferring terrifyingly into him, stripping him down to complete timidity. Pelle however seemed indolent to the many fearsome machines. Jenks was sweating; he hadn't noticed it until now, the beads of water like cooling syrup on his neck; he had forgotten to take off his trench coat before leaving.
The cluttering of the machines was galvanizing. Jenks was surprised that the tot of man in front of him seemed to be completely undaunted. The workers seemed even more valiant, strenuously, stolidly, toiling over the pistons, manning their adversary well. This was a place unlike the placid sea. This was a place of appalling emotions. The incessant machines rumbled still, pushing and pulling steam to its destination. Jenks tried to stand and walk sedately through this jungle of mechanics. He missed the sybaritic, yet small, cabin now. This only sparked a slight contrition in his metaphorical heart.
Pelle was moving towards the door on the other side, past the tantalizing machines. Jenks was a little crestfallen at this time, however seeing the improvement in direction; he was less irresolute of himself. Jenks walked silently past the enigma of the pipes, the clamorous pistons, to escape from this mechanical horror. When he caught up, Pelle seemed to be still complacent, however once through the portal, he was less than amiable. Pelle, still complaining fastidiously, continued onwards down the hallway. Jenks was happy to be leaving, since he was near capitulation. Jenks would suggest the diner, if it wasn't for Pelle's austerity. As they continued down the hallway, Jenks began to feel like he almost had requiem for his stomach. If this continued any longer, Jenks felt like he would have to encroach upon Pelle's nature to get something to quell himself.
Today, however that would not be necessary, as he could smell a food court nearby. Continuing on his quest throughout the ship, this delightful, lingering smell came closer. Jenks could see an open door beside his rotundity of his leading friend. Jenks was starting to anticipate whatever mysteries the cooks had conjured up from, what Jenks thought to be scarce resources. A few steps more and he was peering through the portal to a metallic eating hall. The seats seemed to be part of extensions to the walls. He began to enter, but he could see the guide slowly walking down the hall. Jenks ran after him, puzzled, his trench coat flaring like a bird's wings behind him. Apparently, Pelle was walking to a row of double doors, facing the outer hull of the ship. Pelle entered through one of these, Jenks still trailing behind. When Jenks arrived, the door was sliding back. Jenks thrust his fingers through the small crack and threw the door outwards, revealing a prodigious balcony. He stood on the balcony eclipsing half of the lower levels; Jenks spotted Pelle striding down the oblong steps. He bolted after him, leaping the ellipse steps, the tassels on the jacket bushwhacking a few distraught viewers. Finally catching up to Pelle, Jenks took the seat beside him; from his viewpoint he could see the immensity of the theatre. He also noticed the strange block in front of each seat, stretching from end to end of the row. Jenks crossed his legs, the front vent of the trench coat opening allowing him to do so. As the lights dimmed, Jenks set his eyes on the stage. That was the point at which he noticed how high it was, what is this, a redoubt? Jenks thought to himself. The person next to him seemed to have an aversion to his shoes. Jenks saw the mud on them now; although the mud had been knocked off on the boardwalk the sides still retained a decent amount of affronting material. Jenks uncrossed his legs for the courtesy of his neighbor. Jenks did not know if this show would simply be a stint or an eternity. He watched with anticipation as the colossal curtains opened. The first character stumbled into view. Jenks and the others in the crowd above him watched as the play unfolded in front of them. It was a while before Jenks noticed it was The Taming of the Shrew by Shakespeare. During an intermission, the crowd was allowed to palaver and have bandy discussions with each other, their fickle dress creating a collage of color un seen in the streets of New York. However shows like this were rather common if one could afford one. After the intermission, dinner was served, and a healthy one at that, with many calico napkins; Jenks had suddenly realized his intense hunger again and ate promptly. At the end, all of the characters generously gave bows, however the bandy-legged one found this troublesome. Others gave their thoughts on which character was a varmint, which was good, bad, and so on. Going back to his cabin, Jenks parted ways with Pelle, who before had promised more on the tour but obviously did not have the strength or energy to do so.
Jenks went to bed, though he was unknowing of what white landscapes he will wake to.
2
All was quiet on the ship, save one weathered soul, remembering the past expedition. The expedition which nearly had him locked away.
* * *
"Spring expedition, 1936," The man said to himself, pouring over a rather old scrapbook. He laughed, "They didn't know what it could do, they could never know." The man tilted his head back, closing his eyes in unison, remembering the desert.
The sand lapped at his face, his hat brim furrowed with each gust. He was one of many who endured this. The team had been trekking for days now, under the lead of a native. The team had commonly complained about the loss of such luxuries as solid structures, and decent headroom. The native had paid no heed to the loss, as they had never known them. There, they saw it, an acute monolith, rising presumptuously out of the sands of the vast, arid desert. This is where there guide said he would be returning to his domicile, however he gave a warning of a great creature. The team leader, with much sagacity and audacity, stated he was sure this would only be a vexing obstacle, since most were overstatements of the legends.
The team warily passed the looming structure and its accomplices. As the passed, they found the other side was carved with many inscriptions and carvings. The man wondered why it was only on this side and not the other. He concluded that it must be the winds blowing the sand, like sandpaper, across the other side, rubbing it smooth. But it isn't smooth, it's just as rugged as the other side, the man thought; Just leave it be, he responded to himself. He was surprised to find that the others had such apathy for the rather large talisman.
The team was even more complexed as they crossed a fallen pillar, just as ornate as the last landmark. Below it laid an abysmal crevice. Must have been carved by a river, no doubt, for the sand is different here, like a riverbed. He thought.
The team followed the declined pillar into a rather large plateau-like structure; the underground area was lit by a small hole. Although this hole seemed much eroded, it looked undoubtedly man-made. There they made their camp. After doing so, they made their way down in a small party, the man among them. In this area, sparsely lit by other small apertures, there was another raised breadth, also undoubtedly man-made. In the center was a prominent sand pit. The man kicked a stone off the edge. It skipped its way down the decline, freeing loose stones as it went. It gathered into a stupendous landslide, if the viewer was only a decimeter tall. Finally it hit, kicking up the dust-like sand in a shallow cloud.
A great cracking sound could be heard, followed by a dampened, banshee-like call. More dust was thrown up, as a malicious, pallid creature extricated itself from the sand.
The party stood in a crouch-like pose; eager to give up ground should this beast prove to be a threat.
That is all I have now, be sure to comment and check back for updates!
Anyways, hears the story:
This is a land forgotten by time. A land least traveled, if traveled at all. A land no man has laid eyes on nor treads foot on. Distant thunders of the booming voices of creatures now unknown. It is dawn here. The early rays of the sun ignite the morning dew with a red flame, making it seem as if the trees were bleeding. Amongst the cool mist, something stirs. But we must leave this land for now and set our sights, and minds, on another strange land.
In a hotel room, next to the confuse streets of New York City, a man busied himself to pack his bags. He was not without reason for this; he could hear another sound over the restless ambiance of the street, sirens. The man fidgeted even more with his bags, he new he had not much time left now. "Damn," the man exclaimed after a peek at his watch. The street lights cast eerie shadows across the man's flushed, hobbled form, bent over stuffing everything he thought he would need into his bags. The hotel room was in quite mess, articles of clothing strewn across a once delicately made bed, drawers were ripped out of the dressers and nightstands. The man lifts his head up, like a dog or cat if they heard their masters calling their names, he could hear them coming.
He could hear shouts now coming from the stairwell. He knew he must hurry, or he could become trapped. "But I won't," he said after such a thought, glancing at his bottle of whiskey perched on the dresser. He grabbed his notebook, quickly fashioning a pencil to it, and shoved it into his faded leather rucksack, along with other belongings. The shouts were becoming more defined now. The man slung his rucksack over his shoulder and scrambled for his duffle. Snatching his whiskey and cigarette case along with a handkerchief on the way out, he slammed the door shut not locking it he knew there wasn't any reason now.
On his way out he could hear footsteps stumbling behind him a loud "There he is, get 'em!" was uttered. This is what he was waiting for. Fumbling the whiskey out of his pocket he twisted the cork out, took a quick swig and stuffed the handkerchief in attempting to light it with the lighter out of the cigarette case he held it there until it caught aflame. He stole a look aft of him, in time to see five stumbling men burst out from the corner. Turning around and backpedaling he through the whiskey down the hall. The alcoholic beverage, being flammable, burst into flames, scorching the embroidered carpet. He turned back around in time to plant his face on a hotel door. He stumbled backwards, stunned and shocked, but recovered quickly, quicker than the souls down the hall, he thought, and turned, sprinting, for the stairwell.
As his feet neared the bottom he leapt, saving three extra steps. He decided to walk the rest of the way to the street, waving down a taxi "East docks," he told the cab driver. He climbed inside, not unshouldering his luggage; he new it would be a short drive. From inside the cab, he watched the streetlamps streak by, the ones ahead rivaling the dazzling stars for dominance over the night sky. Eventually he heard the smooth asphalt metamorphose into a rougher pavement; the crackling of crushed glass could be heard. But he heard something else above the miniscule sounds, sirens. As they were nearing a bend, he told the driver to stop and get out. The cab driver, of course, refused to do so. So, the man presented a twenty dollar bill. Now, of course, the cab driver accepted, and seemingly happy, he stepped out of the car.
After some time of getting it turned around. The man grabbed a cobblestone from the road, and set it atop the gas peddle. The taxi lurched forward, gaining speed. Now the man unshouldered his rucksack and rummaged through a little bit finding another personal item, his revolver. Taking aim, the man glanced at the police cars speeding ahead of him; they won't be speeding for long, the man thought. He fired, the shot hit its mark exactly, the back left wheel. It was good thing the cab driver wasn't still there that moment, because after that the car turned, skidding, and fell on its side. He tucked the revolver back into his rucksack, and turned to continue his journey. Behind him he could hear the screeches of tires, crunching of metal and angry shouts.
* * *
As he walked, the buildings loomed over him, gloomily; the expression "the walls have eyes" could be at a better use here. Eventually, the walls changed from brick to soulless concrete; from concrete to cold metal. He could see the cranes, looking quite eerie up ahead. It had begun to thunder now, and with every lightning strike, the world lit up in explicit detail, the rust on the warehouses, oil stains on the concrete, only to be flashed back into mystery the next moment. The light drizzle had begun to turn the rucksack from a drab tan to a dark brown. His footsteps squeaked and squelched as he drudged on.
Finally, he reached the docks. The thick, salty scent of the ocean, the sound of pounding waves, this time there were no sirens to rush his movement or thoughts.
As he clambered across the rickety gangplank, he was greeted by a friendly voice.
"Hello, long time no see, Jenks"
"Pelle," He replied quizzically as he scrambled the rest of the way up the gang plank.
"Yeah, now let's get you settled in a room so we can tour the ship."
Pelle was a squat little man; he barely came close to two thirds of Jenks' height, yet was bout twice his width.
The thought of sitting down made him realize for the first time feeling the dragging weight on his shoulder by the duffle and rucksack.
Entering the small cabin, Jenks noticed this would be quite a stretch from the hotel suite. The bed was only about twice as wide as his duffle. After relieving himself of his burdens, he looked out the window he could see the city lights flickering in the distance. A fresh sea breeze blew through, sending a chill down his back, even though he was wearing a heavy trench coat. Jenks got up and shut the porthole, locking it. He new he did not want to wake up to a frigid oceanic breeze in the night.
Jenks felt safe there, in the cabin, with his notebook cached safely in the knapsack. He heard a knock on his door. He was a little disheartened to leave such an embracing place. The knock came again, this time a barrage of fists. Jenks knew it was Pelle, by his cantankerous nature.
Jenks left the cabin, following the short, stout man, who seemed to barely fit through the narrow corridor, his sashay, however, would make the hallway burst, Jenks thought. The corridor, lined with doors, seemed ingeniously designed to give the viewer mollified state, or boredom, Jenks remarked. First they where the wooden cabin doors, then they gradually grew scarcer to the monotonous metal hatches and gauntly stairs.
They emerged from the deck, seeing instantly the placid waters, its depths exuberant with all the treasures and pitfalls, and the glossy wooden beams of the deck. That together with the wind, rippling their cloths as they walked, would be a truly exulting theme.
Jenks could smell the sea, the air congested with salt. He walked over to the railing; he could feel the slick deck boards, firm, yet still seemingly unstable, with each step. Putting his hands on the railing, Jenks felt the smooth, cold paint and the rust, the rough pattern across the rail. He felt Pelle, grabbing his hand with haste. After which, they began to burrow back under the ship's deck. The rust on the staircase slowly degenerated with each step. He could no longer feel the hard, unmoving metal stairs, now he could feel the carpet, caressing the bottoms of his shoes.
Pelle was dragging him imperiously nearer to the engine room. After several steep staircases, one in which Jenks almost fell trying to keep up with the stout, yet rather quick, man. With each staircase the thumping of the pistons, the rambling of the generators, and the heat of the fires started to grow. The pistons were nearly unbearable now. The loud pops of the pistons shooting forward, the hiss of the gas and steam escaping, soon, it they became loud enough to be felt in his chest, it seemed as though his heart had started beating to this mechanical tune. He was sure his unrest was showing on his face.
"Oh, stop it, we haven't gotten within twenty meters of the thing; see what it feels like then." Pelle said, an impudent air was blatantly upon him. The remark made Jenks want to speak out in protest, but thought better of it to keep his gallant and amiable nature.
They had gotten to the portal of the room, and Jenks was starting to get used to the thump of the pistons and other mechanical noises seeping from the door. Pelle, unperturbed by the constant, and consistent, noises opened the portal and ambled inside. The unkempt workers seemed completely undisturbed by their entering, and continued on with their work. They walked past the acute, fidgety movements of the machines. Jenks was even afraid to speak, the shockwaves of each alteration transferring terrifyingly into him, stripping him down to complete timidity. Pelle however seemed indolent to the many fearsome machines. Jenks was sweating; he hadn't noticed it until now, the beads of water like cooling syrup on his neck; he had forgotten to take off his trench coat before leaving.
The cluttering of the machines was galvanizing. Jenks was surprised that the tot of man in front of him seemed to be completely undaunted. The workers seemed even more valiant, strenuously, stolidly, toiling over the pistons, manning their adversary well. This was a place unlike the placid sea. This was a place of appalling emotions. The incessant machines rumbled still, pushing and pulling steam to its destination. Jenks tried to stand and walk sedately through this jungle of mechanics. He missed the sybaritic, yet small, cabin now. This only sparked a slight contrition in his metaphorical heart.
Pelle was moving towards the door on the other side, past the tantalizing machines. Jenks was a little crestfallen at this time, however seeing the improvement in direction; he was less irresolute of himself. Jenks walked silently past the enigma of the pipes, the clamorous pistons, to escape from this mechanical horror. When he caught up, Pelle seemed to be still complacent, however once through the portal, he was less than amiable. Pelle, still complaining fastidiously, continued onwards down the hallway. Jenks was happy to be leaving, since he was near capitulation. Jenks would suggest the diner, if it wasn't for Pelle's austerity. As they continued down the hallway, Jenks began to feel like he almost had requiem for his stomach. If this continued any longer, Jenks felt like he would have to encroach upon Pelle's nature to get something to quell himself.
Today, however that would not be necessary, as he could smell a food court nearby. Continuing on his quest throughout the ship, this delightful, lingering smell came closer. Jenks could see an open door beside his rotundity of his leading friend. Jenks was starting to anticipate whatever mysteries the cooks had conjured up from, what Jenks thought to be scarce resources. A few steps more and he was peering through the portal to a metallic eating hall. The seats seemed to be part of extensions to the walls. He began to enter, but he could see the guide slowly walking down the hall. Jenks ran after him, puzzled, his trench coat flaring like a bird's wings behind him. Apparently, Pelle was walking to a row of double doors, facing the outer hull of the ship. Pelle entered through one of these, Jenks still trailing behind. When Jenks arrived, the door was sliding back. Jenks thrust his fingers through the small crack and threw the door outwards, revealing a prodigious balcony. He stood on the balcony eclipsing half of the lower levels; Jenks spotted Pelle striding down the oblong steps. He bolted after him, leaping the ellipse steps, the tassels on the jacket bushwhacking a few distraught viewers. Finally catching up to Pelle, Jenks took the seat beside him; from his viewpoint he could see the immensity of the theatre. He also noticed the strange block in front of each seat, stretching from end to end of the row. Jenks crossed his legs, the front vent of the trench coat opening allowing him to do so. As the lights dimmed, Jenks set his eyes on the stage. That was the point at which he noticed how high it was, what is this, a redoubt? Jenks thought to himself. The person next to him seemed to have an aversion to his shoes. Jenks saw the mud on them now; although the mud had been knocked off on the boardwalk the sides still retained a decent amount of affronting material. Jenks uncrossed his legs for the courtesy of his neighbor. Jenks did not know if this show would simply be a stint or an eternity. He watched with anticipation as the colossal curtains opened. The first character stumbled into view. Jenks and the others in the crowd above him watched as the play unfolded in front of them. It was a while before Jenks noticed it was The Taming of the Shrew by Shakespeare. During an intermission, the crowd was allowed to palaver and have bandy discussions with each other, their fickle dress creating a collage of color un seen in the streets of New York. However shows like this were rather common if one could afford one. After the intermission, dinner was served, and a healthy one at that, with many calico napkins; Jenks had suddenly realized his intense hunger again and ate promptly. At the end, all of the characters generously gave bows, however the bandy-legged one found this troublesome. Others gave their thoughts on which character was a varmint, which was good, bad, and so on. Going back to his cabin, Jenks parted ways with Pelle, who before had promised more on the tour but obviously did not have the strength or energy to do so.
Jenks went to bed, though he was unknowing of what white landscapes he will wake to.
2
All was quiet on the ship, save one weathered soul, remembering the past expedition. The expedition which nearly had him locked away.
* * *
"Spring expedition, 1936," The man said to himself, pouring over a rather old scrapbook. He laughed, "They didn't know what it could do, they could never know." The man tilted his head back, closing his eyes in unison, remembering the desert.
The sand lapped at his face, his hat brim furrowed with each gust. He was one of many who endured this. The team had been trekking for days now, under the lead of a native. The team had commonly complained about the loss of such luxuries as solid structures, and decent headroom. The native had paid no heed to the loss, as they had never known them. There, they saw it, an acute monolith, rising presumptuously out of the sands of the vast, arid desert. This is where there guide said he would be returning to his domicile, however he gave a warning of a great creature. The team leader, with much sagacity and audacity, stated he was sure this would only be a vexing obstacle, since most were overstatements of the legends.
The team warily passed the looming structure and its accomplices. As the passed, they found the other side was carved with many inscriptions and carvings. The man wondered why it was only on this side and not the other. He concluded that it must be the winds blowing the sand, like sandpaper, across the other side, rubbing it smooth. But it isn't smooth, it's just as rugged as the other side, the man thought; Just leave it be, he responded to himself. He was surprised to find that the others had such apathy for the rather large talisman.
The team was even more complexed as they crossed a fallen pillar, just as ornate as the last landmark. Below it laid an abysmal crevice. Must have been carved by a river, no doubt, for the sand is different here, like a riverbed. He thought.
The team followed the declined pillar into a rather large plateau-like structure; the underground area was lit by a small hole. Although this hole seemed much eroded, it looked undoubtedly man-made. There they made their camp. After doing so, they made their way down in a small party, the man among them. In this area, sparsely lit by other small apertures, there was another raised breadth, also undoubtedly man-made. In the center was a prominent sand pit. The man kicked a stone off the edge. It skipped its way down the decline, freeing loose stones as it went. It gathered into a stupendous landslide, if the viewer was only a decimeter tall. Finally it hit, kicking up the dust-like sand in a shallow cloud.
A great cracking sound could be heard, followed by a dampened, banshee-like call. More dust was thrown up, as a malicious, pallid creature extricated itself from the sand.
The party stood in a crouch-like pose; eager to give up ground should this beast prove to be a threat.
That is all I have now, be sure to comment and check back for updates!
