The Mountain

Back in 2009 Jake Parker created Inktober. During the month of October as a challenge, he tried to create a new drawing every day of the month. 31 Days 31 Drawings. Back in 2013 I had my own challenge where I tried to write a new story every day. For the entire year. 365 stories in 365 days. Thankfully it wasn't a leap year. You can read them all here online: thedailyfischer. 

Anyway, when I heard about Inktober it got me thinking about what I had done and it got me in the mood to try another challenge like this. But, the sad reality is, I'm not much of an artist. I can write though. So I'm going to do my own version where I write 31 stories this month. Hopefully. And since Halloween is coming up I am going to try to have a creepy, horror twist to most of them. No promises. Anyway. Read away. Here's the first one:

The Mountain

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Summer was gone and the fall harvest was upon them and the village was at peace. It was a pleasant life and a fruitful one. The cool winds rolled in. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. The changing of the tides, the creeping of the seasons. There was no reason for fear.

The wind’s whisper went unheard. Calling out a name, long gone and long lost.

“Samhain...”

The forbidden name.

“Samhain...”

The forbidden one.

Calling him... beckoning for his return...

The townspeople didn’t hear. Or they didn’t care. The call went unheeded. And life went on.

The Harvest moon rose and the village celebrated. They had worked hard, for winter would soon come. They had worked hard and it was their time to celebrate.

The wind’s whispers rolled over the hills and across the plains. Faint and hidden. Foreboding.

“Samhain...”

“Samhain...”

The Hunter’s moon rose and the village rejoiced. They danced. There was music and revelry.

And then the ground shook.

Just a little. Just a small rolling motion. Almost imperceptible at first.

And then it shook for real. It rumbled. It rolled.

The townspeople didn’t know what it meant.

There weren’t supposed to be earthquakes. There were the hills, yes, but they were ancient, from a time before time. The land was settled. There weren’t supposed to be earthquakes.

The townspeople grew nervous. Some believed it was a sign. Some believed it was the end. They scattered and ran; the festivities ruined. Where could they find safety? Where could they go? Their homes would tumble down, the farms would be destroyed, the village razed.

The ground shook.

Over and over. For far too long. It was unnatural, apocalyptic.

Then it lifted.

It wasn’t an earthquake. It wasn’t some sort of natural disaster. It was the earth waking up. Deep beneath, something was alive. The land rolled over and something erupted from below.

It looked like a limb, an appendage, a hand. An enormous palm. It was alive. And it was massive.

The townspeople screamed in terror. No one could have imagined. It was beyond their comprehension.

The mountain opened its eyes.

It stretched. It yawned. It had been asleep for such a very long time.

The townspeople were scared. They ran. There would be no escape. The mountain was awake. The mountain was alive and larger than life. There was no stopping it. It was going to crush the village.  It would crush them all.

The mountain lifted up its massive body. It began to rise.

Then the mountain rolled over and closed its eyes and went back to sleep. The whispering winds were quite once again. Its season had not yet come. The townspeople abandoned their homes and disappeared away, unwilling to wait and find out just when the mountain’s time would be.

© copyright Matthew Ryan Fischer, 2015