Desolation Peak
Jack Kerouac expected enlightenment. It was his right as a writer, after all, going to one of the loneliest places in the world - Desolation Peak. Spending days staring at the fire finder, the red fox finds that all is not as simple in the course of mastery as he thought... And the darkness can toy with a lonely fox's mind.
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If you don't know who Kerouac is, please google. You will not be disappointed <3 The background of this is, for those who do not already know, that Kerouac travelled and stayed on Desolation Peak for a period of time in the fire finding hut. He forced this solitude on himself in the hope of a vision or enlightment that would enhance his writing. It must have worked, because I believe that it was after this incident that he wrote 'On the Road' in an extremely short span of time and refused to allow his editor to do his job.
This snippet story (almost flash fiction) is intended to make you think, not give you a complete story. I wrote it around a year ago for part of my Creative Writing assessment at university and edited it to make it applicable to the furry side of life. Just something to tide you lovely furs over until I finish my editing of two adult stories.
Bet you've never seen Kerouac as a red fox before!
Story (c) Amethyst Mare / Arian Mabe
Image (c) Hoosiermuse, found at the following links:
Specific post - http://jeffdarrenmuse.com/2010/09/10/high-country-news-gary-snyder-jack-kerouac-and-lookout-tales-in-the-north-cascades/
(Definitely check the images on this blog out! Many fantastic shots <3 And interesting tales!)
Desolation Peak
Written by Arian Mabe / Amethyst Mare
Jack Kerouac was suspended in space. There was sound - sound everywhere! - but no life or glimmer of being to be glimpsed. All was dark, all was black and all was sound. The red fox breathed slowly and deeply, standing upright in the middle of the rectangular room, sealed within the fire spotting hut on Desolation Peak that had become both safety and prison. Somewhere in the rearing gloom, a deer coughed, stirring up vegetation with its cloven hooves. Insects buzzed and whirred like minute flying machines, passengers locked on to their next target, preparing to drop painted missiles on a cowering enemy. He swore and slapped his neck, leaving a smear of blood and mosquito guts through the richly coloured but dirty fur. Another droned by his ear, brushing past a clump of shockingly black hair that had not been tamed in days. His eyes collected the flicker of stars from beyond the hut, dancing out of reach, and cast them aside from his giant's hand, dissatisfied.
Darkness: enough of darkness. Stooping, Jack felt around his boot for the ever-present lighter and glass lantern. Dried wax coated the filthy interior of the lantern, but it served its purpose as well as was possible; he would take the presence of any light he could. Holding the lantern high, he slipped his fingers inside and, by feel alone, lit the wick as if it was an action that he had undertaken so many times that he no longer needed sight to operate his own light. Jack smiled.
He set the lantern upon the desk and scanned the fire finder in the centre of the room, which was the accursed reason that he was there. The lantern's warm glow illuminated the cabin and his meagre possessions, scattered around the narrow bed, desk and eating area. The fire finder was always kept clear of debris, that much was a rule. Jack scraped back his dark hair and turned in a complete circle, pivoting on his booted heels. From the windows, he could see so far in the course of daylight hours and yet his gaze was painfully limited during the darkness. In the flickering lantern light, his muzzle stared back at him, serious and strained. Had he always had such hollows beneath his eyes?
There was supposed to be an epiphany. There was supposed to be something. But there was nothing. Muttering, Jack scuffed his boot across the floor and resisted the urge to fling his fists about - the windows, the bed, the desk, it would not matter what suffered. A feral snarl burst from his lips and he paced the wooden floorboards, hands clasped behind his back. Pace, pace, pace, pace, pace. Where were the ideas? The dreams? The thoughts? Where was his writing? There was no inspiration to be uncovered from emptiness.
The scream shook him. It ripped through the night, clutched him by the throat and shook him until he gasped for breath. A cougar screaming, only a cougar, he repeated in his head, trying to soothe the drum of his startled heart; he had heard cougars many times before, like someone being murdered. He returned to his pacing and listened intently to something, some creature, snuffling around the cabin. He had the uncomfortable notion of being in a cage at a zoo but, instead of humans peering in, there were beasts observing him with blank eyes. He was on display. Outside, the creature snuffed and growled lowly, an animal throat trembling too close for comfort. What was coming? What was outside? He swallowed his fear and held the lantern aloft, though it only threw his own face back at him in the window panes.
A wolf howled. Were they coming? He shook his head, no, no, no, over and over again, sinking to his knees and then his side, lantern wobbling on the ground. He had dropped it. A cry trapped in his throat, he scrambled for escape in the dirty, grey walls and clawed at the floorboards like a mole, the lion roaring to the tamer's whip. What good would rushing outside through any means do? Think, think - he could not think. Jack dug his dirty fingers into his thighs and pressed, calming in the throb of protesting pain. No, he did not want to leave the cabin. Just make sure that they could not rake him, they that were outside, they that were 'out there'. Groaning, he wrapped his arms around his head and rocked back and forth, back and forth, on the cold, hard floor. No one was there. No one was coming. His thoughts snarled.
Life was outside and he without.