1.31.2006

Johnny's Work






1.26.2006

Afternoon Hike

By: T.W. Bonner
January, 2006

Abraham Yaples stays just out across that frozen plane, the one blinding you, being that you are neither native nor familiar to these elevations. Before going, be sure to put on good thick shoes and bring extra socks. Thick ones, too. Once you go, the walk across the open will only take a few minutes. No need to rush, because the ground will sink beneath your feet at unexpected times, and Abe has been waiting for long enough to wait for a few minutes more.
On the other side you will face a mass of sharpened thickets and stoic saplings. You may proceed, but you will be colder now beneath the trees and out of the light behind you, and the sensation of a pair of eyes boiling on your neck is ordinary. They are only the type that is aged brown and knowing, and in places, chopped down to a crystal gray.
If you have followed these directions as they have been transcribed, then you now stand before a broken down stone wall. The wall is very old, and may be older than anything you have ever seen, and it will be taking cover from the elements beneath a thick shag carpet of moss, rising and falling with the contours of the earth. Turn left here, and if you haven’t already done so, pick up your pace and awareness. From now on the snow will be working against you, as it will always do in this time and place. To continue, you must cling to the soggy curtain next to you. The stones beneath, ancient and content, may be reluctant to assist, and may resist by protruding angles and jagged edges—beware of the numerous hazards.
Now, trudging faster, your heart has begun to beat into your ears, and despite the cold, your cheeks and lobes are burning. Your salvation awaits, and you will not divert. Abraham Yaples is close. And waiting.
I know, I know, the screaming. The screaming and the fire have become more than annoyances. You’re hurting a lot now. I know, but move. You’re blind, but move. Before you, and jump. Jump.
Your suspension is indefinite but, and I tell you this now to express my regret for not being forthcoming—as forthcoming as I could have, or perhaps, I should have been with you in the beginning, but Abraham Yaples is only a little further. Relax your extremities. The ice will only take a few minutes. In fact, you may already have realized a sensation of cracking. The shimmering crystals in your plasma, beautiful as they are, each distinct and sparkling crimson will continue to grow with each ragged breath from here on. Do not reflect. Do not wish. Do not pray—these waste the power remaining. It is coming now, and you go.
Your impact has not broken you despite this feeling, and the most impossible course now is retreat. No, attack. Run. Your heart beat is deafening, but this is for the best. Scream. Scream for salvation just a little further on. Your legs are blazing from your ankles up, but this must only push you harder. There is a river now, shallow but swift. It will try to take you. Do not give it time. Fight for the life turning stone under the skin. Howl. Do not release.
There. There. Do you see him? His children lay beneath him, each curled into heavy blocks, their names turned etchings under moistened patchwork quilts of green and brown. Here you fall before his monolithic granite trunk and wrap your arms about his cold. The crucifix at his highest point is sentient and will be always. Rest your worn eyes and let your bluish tendrils fall back to Earth. Sleep, and warm blankets will shelter you. The thickest ones. Abraham Yaples will stay with you always, at last.

A. Yaples, 1758 - 1810