As I reached the top of the hill, I examined the sides of the formation first. They looked like natural rock, and felt like it, too. The locals blamed every fairy and ghost for the sight that they could imagine, their superstitions leading them astray. Most likely, the structure was the result of a long-dead river, water that once had flown through here and since been redirected. They had showered me with gifts when I told them my destination. While they were content to hide down below, I, the intrepid adventurer, braved the mountains.
It was a nice reputation to build up, so I didn’t stop the rumors. I knelt in the sand for a closer look at the sculpted rock. It was too perfect to be natural. Looking through it gave me a sense of vertigo, like I was peering into another world. I noted my thoughts and observations in my journal as I looked through. I wrote, until my eyes began to feel tired and my hand cramped. I was able to tear my eyes away from the hole at long last, placing down my pen.
My throat tickled with thirst. Surprised, I reached for my water bottle. Gone. I looked to my journal. It was still recognizable as paper, but it was well-worn with time. As I picked up the pen, scribbling on the moldy, fragile paper. As it tore, the pen left no mark.
I called out, but there was no one to hear me on the mountain. Clutching the notebook, the pen, and the last shreds of my sanity, I began the long trek back.
Prompt: Weekly Writing Prompt #104: | FAIRY | SAND | HIDE | JOURNAL | RIVER |