Theo Palarie: Falling From Olympus (#Wattys2018)

9. Origins

I'm helped onto my feet by a large granular wall. It's cut with math and precision. Unfortunately pleurisy has invaded my lungs, and I'm struggling to catch the breath necessary for a breakdown. I don't know what it is that saved me, or brought me here in what looks like a wide, rectangular cave. But all of it from the claustrophobia that's closing in, to my shoes sinking into the strand, feels surreal. I decide to follow the length of my support's through the shadows before my foot resists —almost like it's waiting to determine where I stand before falling into the motions of another step.

My head rolls in every direction then settles overhead, where shadows and dayglow mingle like they aren't natural opposites. To a place where sunlight pierces the chinks between packed rocks beneath the high eaves of a distant wall at the end. And even though the light is retarded, unable to fully illuminate my hands or the shifting particles of the ground, the textures of the beach grow more noticeable in the walls as my eyes adjust. I see those qualities in both at either side of me: the fence high one across the unknown, as well as the larger, toasty one currently sealing off the kinetic sound of the ocean.

"You could be less formal." Teases a thick curdling voice. Traveling upwards and rippling generously. Reaching for every surface which in turn makes the cave sound much bigger than I anticipated.

Piqued, I try locating the source with searching steps which stick close to the wall. I then imagine the snake pit probably a foot away in the dark and decide to cross through the token light, to reach the littler cast away past the valley of of uneven sand.

The shorter wall stretches off into the dark like a train, but I provoke my cuts, and cause them to rush over with pain, as reach for the wall's shelve like heights —blind to what could bite me or pull me onto it's stage. I see my error in mistaking what is actually a table for a wall. A table which had allot of geometry and patience go into it's inexplicable dimensions. I retrieve my hand, taken by the cleanliness on the receiving end of my touch. No sand. No dirt. Only smooth warm rock as clean as though it's been wiped clean.

"I always knew you'd find this place. Follow my voice -I wish to see you." Reverberates the voice. The baritone vised over my head, yet again. I want to tell him to whisper but my heart withdraws. I'm unable to dampen such genuine excitement.

Mainly because I'm scared. The voice is coming from above the table. I've been catching glimpses of the grooves and curves which make a ribcage while I've been glancing up. Even my lacerations have ripped slightly as I've detailed his anatomy which compares to the dinosaur fossils you'd normally see hanging from the ceiling of a museum.

I force myself to slog gingerly to the head end of the table, finally reaching the end of the room. The boundary ahead is holding two thick ropes made of heavy-duty chains. Both are black, and scrawling in white glisters like galaxy motion-wallpaper. Tensed, they continue suspending two massive forearms over the edge of the table, and that's when a giant, with a face the size of a new moon, lifts his head casually into the thin rays of sunlight.

His width is to far over me to examine. And so is the crazy nest of dirt he has for hair. And the two small eyes, that button his Unabomber mask, sparkle tearfully with a shine of sadness. By far the worst first impression for any oversized creation on this earth.

"But I don't understand. What is this place?" I wheeze.

His laugh is joyous, rumbling his chains to clank in motion. I feel at ease at the sight of his restraints. Content with the slim odds of being eaten by the vagabond giant denounced to this dark solitary place where no one would hear my screams if things went horribly. Then it dawns on me. I'm trapped in here with him. I might have to drink my own urine to survive the coming days.