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Shimmering sun baked the last drops of moisture from the desert cauldron. The golden solar disc hung menacingly in the pale blue morning sky. Distant clouds offered nothing more than a desperate, forlorn hope of rain. Hunger had been my sole companion since entering this arid landscape; that, and the wooden crate, of course.
Scanning the horizon, which appeared more distant than an hour ago, I finally caught a glimpse of my quarry, no details yet, just a wisp of dust kicked up somewhere along a lonely winding road. My life to this point had taught me patience; I could wait. And anyway, I had some work to do. I began unpacking the wooden crate.
The first item I found was the badly folded instructions—as usual, all diagrams, no words. I’d seen similar sheets many times before. I knew what to do. As I constructed the machine, I kept one eye on the horizon, checking that the dust cloud was growing, approaching, checking that my construction would not be in vain. I was not to be disappointed.
Planks of wood were sawn, nails were hammered, nuts and bolts were united, springs were compressed, lengths of rope were tied, knots were tightened. The machine grew. And all this under the uncompromising glare of that sun. The purple shadows carpeting the valley shortened as the sun rose ever higher, ever brighter, ever stronger.
I wiped the perspiration from my brow. All this physical activity was being made so much more exhausting by the fur coat I wore.
Checking the horizon once more, I spied the growing dust cloud that indicated my target was approaching, hopefully unaware of my intentions.
I gave the machine one final check. The ropes tensed, strained, and creaked; this was good. The springs glistened in the sunlight, calmly waiting to unleash the violent energy compressed in their coils. All was set. This time it would work.
I returned to the crate to extract the two final items. First, I selected the cylindrical tin, eased open the lid, and poured the contents onto the ground at what I had calculated would be the optimum distance from my newly constructed machine. Next, I collected the long, and very sharp, knife. I weighed it in my hand; it felt good.
Looking around the familiar landscape, I felt pride that, this time, my plan would work. Licking my finger and holding it up, I checked the speed and direction of the wind. But this was just habit. The air was still, perfect for my intentions.
In my mind’s eye I saw the next few minutes unfold, culminating in success and, of course, a meal, one I had been anticipating for a long, long time.
I sat carefully on my new machine. Beneath my body I could feel the potential of those stretched and compressed energies, waiting to be unleashed by a single stroke of the knife across one of the ropes.
The dust cloud appeared around the final corner of the road. My extensive calculations had indicated that this moment, right now, was when I should cut the rope.
The next three seconds were a blur.
Until I found myself hanging upside down from the dried, sun-bleached branches of a dead tree. The tree was located about a quarter of a mile from my starting point. Such was the acceleration created by my machine I was disoriented momentarily. Everywhere on my body ached. Things gradually came back into focus. The tree was not vertical, as I had at first thought. It had grown outwards, rooted precariously from the edge of an overhang. I looked down. Below me, at some considerable distance, was a barely distinguishable river running through the deep gorge over which I now hung. Giddy with the height, I searched for something solid and closer. The roots of the decayed tree clung to the edge of the precipice. I began the cautious, slow, and, above all, painful process of crawling along the tree trunk to reach the comfort of solid ground.
A crack.
Senses heightening further, I looked beyond the tree roots to see my quarry staring benignly at me.
Then, without warning, the roots separated from the mountainside upon which my adversary was still standing. A sense of inevitability hung in the air—as did I.
I parted company with the dead tree, which then fell below me, cartwheeling downwards.
I looked at the creature, blinked, yet still I remained stationary, suspended in the air. The creature blinked back and stuck out its tongue. This apparent stalemate continued. Out here, although the laws of physics still apply, they take a little longer than usual to be enforced.
Then I began falling.
From its position of safety, the creature’s eyes followed my descent, head cocked slightly sideways with disinterest. From its perspective I rapidly receded from view, soon becoming a diminishing dot to be eventually concluded in a cloud of dust as I reached the painfully inevitable conclusion of my fall. From my perspective, wind screaming as I accelerated, the creature seemed to smile before emitting a faint yet distinctive call, its echoes ricocheting off the valley walls, “Beep, beep!!”
“That’s All Folks!!”
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AUTHOR BIO:
Michael Smith is a British writer, based in Europe. In the past year, in addition to Fabula Argentea, his fiction has appeared in several online literary journals. He has self-published Gruseltal (a humorous novel), two collections of short stories, Fonts and ‘Songs’, and is about to publish his second novel, Dinner Time, all available from online bookstores.
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WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “Down with Gravity”:
What more needs to be said about this brilliantly done piece whose ending we should have seen coming but didn’t? All the clues are there but very cleverly buried using the same techniques that good mystery writers use to bury clues.
Author Michael Smith delivered this fun piece of nostalgia that we couldn’t resist and that we hope everyone old and young can appreciate.