All he remembered was a horrific screech then blackness. There were outstretched hands and sprigs of Palm Scrub surrounding a trail of fools gold. The path was littered with it. Standing water and swampy morass gave birth to cattails and saw grass bouquets in fluttering firefly aspirations. The tall pines cradled errant currents of wind in pine bough whispers and wishful consonance.
He moved along the path, spears of sunshine pierced the jungle hammock in moted spirals of glowing warmth and pools of misty fog roiling in tendrils of cotton near the shadowy border of wooded passage. He spotted the book in glowing temptations of spider silk near the path of fools gold and laying in a bed of moss, the book was covered in a fine spun gossamer spider web. He touched its surface, it was leathery smooth and in breaths of exasperating ambiance. He grabbed the ancient text and read the title, the legend embossed by an eternal pilgrim.
It said in flowing mysterious script. He opened the book to the first page and read.
"Welcome wayfarer, If your curious to know and
Confused in successive row, let it be said
Pilgrim babe, that you are most certainly dead!"
He saw his gray and blue corvette for a moment of evanescent reflection. There it was smashed and broken along with him; hauntingly awed by the posthumous rigors of inspired afterlife, he smiled and began reading the wayfarer guidebook.
submitted at 6:49pm
14 August 2011