Picnic on the White Cliff [short story]
With the back of his hand Daniel wiped the chicken wing grease off his lips. He then walked to the edge of the cliff and started throwing stones in the Olt river reservoir beyond the road, far below. Bloop, once. Bloop, twice...
He enjoyed coming here with his older brother and his friends from North Quarter. They would barbecue, wrestle for football cards and admire the Olt Valley, snaking its way north through the motionless army of Carpathian ogres, into Transylvania. Everything was perfectly arranged as in a scenic post-card promoting the Garden of Eden. And, after what had happened today, Daniel could not feel more like in Heaven.
That morning, back at the school gym, Coach Barbu had chosen him to be the captain for the next season. He felt the luckiest boy in the world. But not because this would make him more popular. He knew the opposite would happen – they would all envy him, like he had envied Dacian, the outgoing captain. Not because he’d get better grades – that doesn’t make you very cool even if the teachers do decide to give you a pass. No. The reason why Daniel felt this surge of anticipation was that, as captain, he had the key to the gym supply room. And tomorrow, after school, that supply room is going to be the best thing that ever happened to him and Elena. Finally.
The chalk cliff reigned over the reservoir. Far on the other side, the town was a thin, white line drawn along the ancient Roman road, against a background of foothills. It looked lonely and awkward, dwarfed by forested creatures with scales made of trees in various nuances of summer. Capela Ridge, flanking the town from the West was a giant crocodile, resting after a good meal of sunshine.
Bloop, a third time. Bloo..
The ground shuddered under his feet. His legs tensed, resisting the presentiment. He turned around with a tremor, ready for the jump back. But the silent scream of the chasm paralyzed him – as it had happened in a dream, just a few nights ago. In a trance, he started gliding towards the abyss, along with a brittle patch of soil covering the lip of the bluff. Twenty meters below, his eyes caught a glimpse of the dark asphalt, heated by a productive summer sun. A few pillow-sized boulders plunged ahead, as if to prepare his sleeping quarters.
The grass rustled nearby. His brother launched into a suicidal leap and Daniel was caught just as he was going over the edge. But now he felt himself slipping away, his hand greasy from the chicken wings. For a moment he looked into his brother’s eyes, knowing. The inevitable rendered them mute.
It was over. No hope left. He was already mid-fall, his brother’s howl of anguish piercing the serenity of the Olt valley. He tried to claw his way into the rock wall, but it was pointless. Kicking the air with his hands and legs, he could do nothing but wait for the impact. It came.
But not before Daniel could ask himself: “Wh...”
Read my other short stories: Onore| To the Stone Bull Bluff| The Shifting Path | The Spy | Picnic on the White Cliff
image: visualart.ro