He reached the center column that protruded from the riverbed. The shade was welcome, so he stood beneath and collected himself. He was so thirsty. He curled up as much of himself into the shadow and waited for anything. Doubt caught up with him: was he any closer to being found? To finding civilization? He needed a better vantage point.
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
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