The sun hung low over the eastern face of the Sierra Nevada Mountain. White, motionless cumulus clouds hung over at 14,000 feet, pasted on turquoise sky. It was going to be another hot day. She'd walked all night, did it to avoid the heat. It was easy for her, being accustomed to moonlight's treks. Her physical efficiency increased with night walks. They were optimal for water and energy retention. The mystery heightened. Her eyes acclimated. The peripheral ability of their panoramic scope widened. She saw things move shadowy, indirectly from frontal's angle, strange things, unearthly. These things like physical, nocturnal animals did not want to be seen, but she saw them unconsciously. They became regulars, as common as the shrubs, trees, rocks and night creatures of flesh and blood.

     Last night she had seen it again, what most of the eastern United States population would refer to as Slender Man or Moth man. "What's the difference?" She asked an early blue-bellied lizard catching morning's light. "They're both dangerous, right?" The lizard performed a push up and squatted prone straightaway as if to agree.

     The apparitions would follow her but thus far had made no direct contact. She didn't fear them necessarily, but she always felt her skin goose-pimple accompanied by a cold chill. Immediately, she would begin praying internally and in desperate moments of mind panic would shout out: "Get away in Jesus name!" When she felt ineffective in her faith's ability to scare them off, she would shout out instead: "Get the fuck outta here, you're not welcome!" 

     Sometimes this approach made her feel a bit guilty for using the "f" word, but she could never fully refrain from using it when feeling the combination of fear and anger. Using the f word seemed to scare them off. Then she would apologize to her Lord and resume her nocturnal trek.

     She was on a mission. Nothing would deter her. No living person, place or thing could ever dissuade her of her objective. For sure no spirit entity would. She'd been scared many times before by real humans much more frightening than the Moth or Slender Man. "Try being locked up in a shed for most of your adolescent life, Mr. Lizard!" She'd left the cute reptile hundreds of paces behind her by now, but addressed it as if it was still within earshot.

     “They didn’t know what they were doin’, right?” 

     “But will they really?” He asked his friend Jeff two questions out of night's thin air. They were rhetorically addressed and were more his subconscious speaking than his expecting a dialogue.

     Dan pondered for meaning as he stared into the fire. He still expected an answer  in his favor he thought, as he reflected the violence of his own rebellious life.

     “Will they really what?” Asked Jeff. He had been distracted by a scream far off across the opposite side of the canyon. He recalled a high situated cave about a half mile across on the brink of the canyon’s edge. He had considered its exploration, but it would have taken them off their course.

     “Did you hear that?”

     “Hear what? I didn’t hear anything. Dude, ’smatter, what are you scared of?” “Here, this 'ill calm yer nerves.” He extended his forearm, offering his friend a joint of high grade weed.

     Jeff brushed it aside with expunged annoyance, “Dude really, I heard a scream, sounded like a chick!”

     “Probl’y a wildcat. Y’know how they sound.” “I was askin’ if the dudes that crucified Jesus Christ will be forgiven.”

     “Forgiven by who, Dude?” Jeff asked. He was plagued by the scream. The sound remained in his head, reverberating it’s echo, bouncing on his nerves.

     “Forgiven by God.”

     “Y’ mean, his Father? Yeah. He’s supposed to, that’s what I read anyway. He let his son be killed for us. A sacrificed lamb. But it'll be different the second time around."

     "Whaddaya mean?"

     "When he comes back he won't be a lamb. He'll come back a lion."

     “Dude, I couldn’t do that. Fuck, I couldn’t die for someone else. And if I had a son I sure wouldn't sacrifice him for anyone else."

     Jeff stared at Dan for a moment.

     "What 're you staring at?"

     "Your ugly face. And second of all you're not God."

     He paused a moment for effect and then addressed Jeff with the third response to his question. "You mean to tell me you wouldn't take a bullet for me?"

     "No, not really, not consciously anyway, I'd have to be caught up in the moment, like if you were drowning or something. Then, I'd probably throw a line out to you. I wouldn't do prison time for you though, much less die for your crimes."

     "Well, I wouldn't for you either. You'd have to be a pretty hot chick if I did. But then again, if there was nothin' in it for me . . . 

     “He did miracles right in front of them."

     "Who did?"

     "Dude what are we talking about? Jesus Christ did. Quit smokin' weed, you're losing your focus."

     "When’s the last time you saw someone raised from the dead? Jeff asked his friend. “I read he stood in front of a grave and called out a dude who had been dead for three days already. The guy’s name was Lazarus. He walked out wrapped in bandages still. And stunk to high heaven."

     “Yep, and they killed him anyway. Just like they still do . . . John Kennedy, Robert, Martin Luther, . . . the list continues today. Don’t get involved with politics, right?”

     “Here, wrap yer mind around this.” Dan extended his arm out for a second time offering his buddy another chance at an extended high. This time Jeff took it mindlessly. It was instinctive, like breathing. It calmed him in fact, although he occasionally suffered bouts of paranoia. Paranoia was part of daily living for him. It was something he accepted. Just part of life.

     The Government controlled everything now. So much for power of and by the people. Democracy was only for idealists; a dream some professors debated in the world’s grid. He and Dan lived off the grid now. Paranoia had less of a grip on his life living in their mountain hideaways.

     No one could buy or trade any kind of product without a mark. The mark was like a universal bar code but far more advanced than the one used in the seventies for consumer products. It involved sophisticated computers. A chip was embedded in the body. It was part of ordinary life.

     All you had to do was go down to the nearest post office or grocery store and get a number invisibly imprinted on the skin. Just like buying a lottery ticket. Just as personal. Like getting your blood pressure checked. Unless you were in the military or government employ. You were assigned it by default. Slip your arm in a paddled hoop, push a round button, fully automated, just wait for the LED printout.

     Another scream.

     Goddamit Dan, that's a girl's scream!"

     The sound echoed eerily across black canyon walls in its diminishing decibel octaves.

     "And whaddo you want me to do about it?"

     "I dunno. But dammit, my skin's crawlin', she needs help."

     "You wanna take a bullet for her? Sacrifice yourself? It's dark out there and far. There's no way we can help her 'til morning. Even if we wanted to."

     "Yeah, and she'll probably be dead by then if some asshole is violating her . . . "

     Dan's snores filled the night air.

     Jeff couldn't sleep. It wasn't the raucous snoring that irritated him as much as it was the ingrained screams he'd earlier heard. He huffed an expelled gasp of soured air, reached for a side situated stub of stick and threw it at his friend. Jeff stirred, quieted and resumed snoring.

     Jeff pictured an imaginary victim. He saw himself flying across the wide chasm of canyon in the dark using internal radar to orientate his direction. He carried a laser weapon of 1000 volts of light beam's charge. He saw the violator from a distance of one half mile through his night seeing infrared goggles. His victim was cringed back in torrid fear, screaming her lungs out to the silent stars overhead.

     No hesitation. With pent up rage, undeterred by speculative processing to the suspect's benefit, Jeff shot from the hip while fully in flight. The green laser traveled the speed of light, 186 k miles per second, found its mark with a Pale Rider's vindication.

     A burst of raw yellow light eerily cast in twenty feet of radii, illuminating the girl victim's facial shock.

     He had not realized the moment of having fallen asleep.

     Jeff awoke to a terrifying scream. it sprung with explosive force through the ear closest to his supposedly sleeping friend hitting his chest like a sonic boom.

     "Get offa me!" Dan struggled beneath a huge, hulking form. It had a wide breadth of shoulder's span. Bear like claws had Dan pinned down ripping at his chest and pushing for a suffocation's hold on his throat.

     "Your corpse or your soul, human vermin. I must have your abode. Let me in. Submit

or die. Yield to me . . . !"

     "Get off my friend, asshole!" Jeff shouted mindlessly at the creature. The air reeked of sulfur and burned ash. He sensed whatever the thing was, it must be demonic. A denizen and visitor from hell itself. He was scared, yet love for his friend spawned a rage of indignation. He ripped the zipper of his sleeping bag with sheer adrenaline empowered strength. In two bounds he jumped on the offenders back.

     "I command you, in the name of Jesus the Christ to leave us alone!" The imperative came spontaneously out of Jeff's deepest inner being which surprised him. His nostrils filled with rancid odor akin to pork's lard.

     The creature momentarily loosened its grip on Dan, stunned. With a shudder of mind boggling strength it arched its feathery back in elastic reflex hurling Jeff skyward like a flicked poker card.

     Jeff landed ten feet away onto a rotten log, stunned and humiliated. He found his senses from concussion's impact, lifted his head astonished toward the scene of attack. He wondered about the thing. "Could it be the Moth man?"

     It was cloaked in heavy thick feathers, like leather, resembling hair. Its orbs of red eyes were each a fist's diameter. It had Dan pinned down with its right arm and sat atop the young man's chest. Its left arm extended toward Jeff with a pointed index claw. "You too are mine. Stupid child of God, you have no faith. No power ov . . . er . . . !"

      Jeff attempted to stand but was lifted up by an unseen force like a strong, invisible hand. He prayed inwardly. "Please God. Heavenly Father. We need your help!"

     The air burst with the light of a quasar. It filled with static electricity. His hair stood on end. The landscape was bathed in light as if a military flare had burst above them revealing a central figure onto the stage of this mountain slope. It was a light being. A messenger. An angelic being. There was no doubt about it. Jeff had never seen an angel, yet instinct confirmed it to him.

     The angel shot a quick look at Jeff filling him with calm. It then lifted its sword upward and thrust it to and through the feathery creature. It screamed in mortal's pain yet the wound was bloodless.

     The angel pulled the blade out and thrust it into the creature once more.

     Again the creature screamed and released its claim on Dan. Dan lay crumpled, a broken spent soul unconscious.

     The angel was gone.

     The creature grasped its wounded sides with threatening glares at Jeff. It muttered phrases of hateful vengeance, indistinguishable of human language. It dematerialized, leaving the scene of the crime without evidence, except for one unconscious human and the other lost in shock. 

     Glenda sat at side of fire, staring into its mesmerizing flames. They flickered and faltered with licks of flame's tongue flashing softly yellow orange like silk into the air, released into the sky like freed fairies. She sat with coffee mug in her clasped hand. Its contents had now become cool. She dozed in and out of sleep, her head nodding, falling forward. The distant sounds of night creatures soothed her tired limbs and pleasantly numbed her mind.

     Her thoughts were sedately centered on her lone freedom. She hypnotically recalled imprisonment at home, a bondage that weighed heavier on her, juxtapositioned by her idyllic sierra mountain wilderness. 

     In her dozed state she sensed an entity staring at her from the darkness across the fire's perimeter. She gradually regained her wakefulness to a sufficient degree of awareness, realizing that something was in fact lurking there. She steadied her gaze allowing her pupils' muscular dilation in the mix of dark and light. There stood a large hulk, standing well over the height of a six foot man. Its shoulders were wider than a football linebacker. Curiously, two red orbs were situated in what must be its head. The head appeared massive. 

     Glenda fought back a wave of panic, yet she remained in a state of forced composure. She instinctively deduced sudden moves would induce a physical attack. She slowly stood making motion toward her tent.

     The intelligence moved with her. Its shadowy hulk moved as if floating. Its coal red, glowing orbs of eyes moving with it. Glenda felt pangs of fear; still able to maintain their harness. 

     More steps toward the tent. 

     More silent flotation in her direction by the beast.

     She managed to reach her destination. She steeled herself to unzip the tent's entrance. The sound of the zipper felt dreamlike, somehow it steadied her taut nerves. She hunched through the flaps and dove into her sleeping bag reaching for her machete.

     She felt vulnerable and exposed, trapped within the thin sheets of soft nylon. She grasped the large, multi functional tool by its familiar leather handle. She felt instant comfort.

     She turned sideways and upwards peering toward the fire. Midway between the tent and fire stood an immense hulk. The air smelled of fire's smoke and a peculiar animal odor, like rancid pork's grease.

     It stood there as if frozen. Waiting. 

     She noticed two large protrusions at top of its head. These flickered and swayed with the fire's convective air currents. She thought of images she'd seen on the internet. The creature made her think of Moth Man. Speculative curiosity sequestered fear; she considered the entity to be spiritual rather than corporal. Therefore, her metallic blade, though formidable would be useless. Her frail frame would be no match for such a monster's size and strength. She whispered an invocation to the Most High, her God. 

      "Dear God, please send me help. Help me Lord. I need you. I'm scared."  She remained hunched inside the tent. Her eyes remained fixed upon the creature and it remained fixed on her. Then it moved. It stepped forward softly, silently toward Glenda.

It stood at the tent's entrance now, standing a full, what she thought, a towering eight feet.

     It was at this point she involuntarily screamed. Her previous efforts at restraining fear culminated in her sheer relinquish to naked terror.

     These were the screams which Dan and Jeff had heard over a mile away, across the vast canyon.

the falling snow

lightly settled, 

slowly layered upon her frozen corpse

the needled rows of twigs 

fir trees' branches 

would not tell 

the times of her demise

what against her, commited crime

something happened in the night

in wee hours of the frozen morn'

between the minutes' dusk,

night's friend

concealed some fiend

to pitch of black, 'til rise of moon

those tracks 

that led to the cave

beneath the basaltic cliff

in whose shadow evil played 'n plotted mischief

murder hid therein; 

it would not emerge 'cept to pervert an' harm

the innocence of man, 

adulterate his works

until the holy messenger 

of God's own throne 

sent to recompense 

at the appointed time

coerced its emergence 

with words high and mighty

tormented demons' ear to piercing screams

was then cast into the bottomless pit

chained 'til time of recompense,

the appointed time for hell's lake

banished 'til then it went

the moth man lurked in the shadows grinning

he sneered silently, 

his view of the fiery sword of justice meted on his kind

deterred him nought

his murderous intent formulated 

lust and vengeance meditated 

on sweet Glenda's innocence

iron horseshoes grey and smudged with rust 

notched indented rectangular holes, perforated rims

shod long ago, horses gone

an' some oval hanging leather yokes for equestrian draft 

hanging with the tack of leather brown

on weathered roughened saw milled boards pegged with nails

make the wall what it is, adorn its roughened face

whose knot holed irregular breaks 

between true twelve inch planks of yesteryore 

allow discreet views to the outside sun-filled prairie world 

coupled with a chandeliered show 

of diffused light that enters shyly through the cracks 

from a noon day sun on the western wall of this montana barn

the light that slaps the edges of the brass, of the harness 

that wears the white of horses' spit an' perspiration dried, 

scratches the powdery floor, of fine dust that is the ground

that is whitish gray, like dirty flour strewn in soft mounds

where the dark an' musty debris does not prevail

where the slightest stir of air raises the tiniest of specks 

like fairy dust that rides upon the back, of the introverted light beams

the prints of bare feet scattered throughout an' leading to the hay loft 

with its severed pile beneath the rawhide leather lassoed ropes suspended,

that hang alongside the washboard sullen galvanized 

bear silent labored testimonies now retired,

that she once lived here 

the barn owl perches by day in a crevice of the rafters, of the loft

if the loft could talk perhaps it'd tell you of the act 

that took place beneath her nose on the hay pile below

ask not of the owl for it was on nocturnal business

in search of rodent prey when such act did violently occur

on a moonlit night in cold of february snow

under guise of shadow played 

with motley moon's light and black intermingled clouds

a lone figure resembling a man with glowing eyes of red

stealthily stalked a fair maiden while in her barn

at curry of her horses

it lifted her off the ground and flew off, up 

through the highest door of the loft 

an' dropped her from that height to dispose of her life

then plunging downward swooped her up again

and flew into the blinding wind and draft of laden snow

     She leaned down and scratched the red earth with a short stick she'd been carrying to ward off gnats which consumed the perspiration on her face. The Sierra sun had warmed the insects' propensity for attack as much as it irritated the exposed skin on her face and back of her neck. 

    "Damn these bugs, alright- you guys need water an' salt too. An' if you're not particular go ahead an' suck on my face!" She took another swat at them with her stick and almost lost her balance. 

     "See what you made me do!" Again she leaned downwards to scratch the earth. She had spied the reddish soil from a distance and descended in elevation of about five hundred feet to this spot near a dried riverbed. It seemed like a clay type soil. This time she squatted down on her haunches and scratched again. She seemed sure it was clay.

     She righted herself to retrieve her canteen a stone's throw away and came back to the same patch of red. On her knees again, she scratched at the clay rifts of soil and formed a little mound. Using the palms of both hands, she formed it to approximately six inches in height. She transfixed a stare at her own motions and the red film of dust that had adhered to her jeans and particularly the skin of her freckled hands. She felt outside of her body as if she were elevated from above, gazing upon a person other than herself. 

     She stared at the mound, motionlessly as if contemplating her next step. Then she used her index finger to depress the top of the miniature hill to create a depression. She paused again as a tear welled up in the corner of her eye. It felt cold as it slowly gained volume from a tiny duct and then fell, a large droplet at the base of the hill.

     Taking her canteen, she unscrewed the cap off, hearing and recording the sound of the black plastic dangle from its aluminum chain as it hit against the canteen. She then poured the precious liquid into the top of the mound until the water reached the rim of its crater.

     "There. I'll just let you soak a moment or two."

     She heard the voices of her two brothers and sister. They were laughing and building mud cakes. The transport to her past time at play filled her with both joy and sadness as she reminisced.

     Another tear plummeted to earth. This one struck the back of her hand, forming a clean, wet drop brightly illuminating her skin. 

     "Okay time to remove the soil from around this volcano."

     She used the four fingers of each hand, working in tandem movements to carefully scoop the red earth from the sides, leaving a moist bowl of clay.

     "Here we are guys." She turned around to offer it to her siblings and found no one there but the landscape, rocks, shrubs, and backpack. And the gnats annoying her face yet again.

     This time the tears flowed from both eyes down her cheeks, which turned into quiet sobs, her convulsing chest and the gnats unabated.

     Heather Coleby had left the central valley of California for months of travel, incognito. No one but anonymous wildlife would know her whereabouts. She was highly familiar with the footpaths of Yosemite and Kings Canyon National Parks. These had been her teenage favorite hangouts during holidays and weekends. She lived for back country backpacking.

     She was accustomed to rejection and developed a fierce independence. Her outcast life, evolved due to having been locked up in a tool shed by her mother's boyfriend. With mother's approval or nonchalance; she had spent much of her young life's weekends banished in the backyard shed. Mother's boyfriend, Rob was fond of Heather and enjoyed abusing her with lewd acts of molestation. She learned early in life to hide her emotions and became hardened and centered her perceptions of reality based on cynical philosophy.

     Within the shed's confines, her principal friends became daddy long legged spiders, ants, mice, and roaches, along with rollie pollie potato bugs. She'd capture these marvelous creatures with her thin, nimble fingers and study their features while conversing with them. She was intrigued with the insect world and thirsted for deeper knowledge of entomological phenomenon. One of her insect heroes was the preying mantis. 

     One memorable afternoon, she witnessed a battle between a three inch mantis and a blue jay. It had just rained. The sun brightly lit the backyard and roof of their home. As she peeked through a knothole in the shed, she noticed a preying mantis walking it's characteristic jerk like motions of hop and stride. It suddenly stopped movement. A blue jay had sprung from bushes with quick successions of wing flaps and landed a mere two feet in front of the mantis.

     The mantis flared it's wings upwardly displaying its owl eye pattern underneath each wing. It appeared like a caped villain. The blue jay cocked its head askew questioningly as if to say, "are you kidding me?!" But Heather sensed that it was in fact hesitant to strike at the ballsy bug. The jay was intimidated. Heather was fascinated with the display of events. This display of mantis bravery affected her psyche. She was the mantis and her molester was the jaybird. She retained this breakthrough resolving subconsciously to plan a means of finding her own freedom.

     The drama between predator and prey continued for approximately five minutes. The jay would hop one or two bursts of distance's closure between itself and the mantis. The mantis would close and re-open its wings and the bird would recoil slightly, until . . .

the jay struck with lightening speed. Probably it reasoned that its beak and size was a greater match against the smaller creature. 

     The bluejay swept in and clasped the mantis in its beak, held it momentarily as if in a victory gesture staring at its captive just before swallowing it whole. Heather remained amazed, pondering the effect of how markings could dissuade an attack. She considered how she could use this knowledge to her benefit against another of her molester's attacks.

     Heather's lust for solitary freedom emerged when her mother threw her out of the house at the tender age of fifteen. She learned to hitch rides with strangers she contacted off the internet. Sometimes she would leave the outskirts of town hitchhiking solo, destination: someplace, anyplace in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Anyplace away from so-called home.

     The bottom fell out. The moment had arrived. She had tired of human contact and human idiosyncrasies and determined to go off and survive off the grid, as they call it.

     Here she was in the mountains, a recluse of society heading for parts within the heart of the vast Sierra Nevada with her self devised, "follow your nose," roadmap. 

     The insects were fond memories she was now thinking on while she trudged along the John Muir Trail on this beautiful October morning.

     She fell into a trance, mesmerized with the quiet of the forest and solitude. She resumed her reflections. There were many fine details to her condition of having lived a nomad life within the city. She detested people, society in general. She had her favorites: people that wouldn't mind their own business and always in her hair. Small minds she regarded as incapable of thinking outside the modicum of effort at task. Minds who judged and prejudiced her behavior and micro managed her by their persistent pettiness toward her efforts at sharing thoughts on her personal beliefs. It proved too much for her and she hit the road, so to speak, and forever, never intending to go back, Jack!

     Heather spotted a black depression in the distance, "Must be a cave, cool, I'll have to explore it." She liked adventure. Exploring the entrance of a cave wasn't her favorite thing to do, but there might be hieroglyphics in it of interest. If there were one cave in the area, there might be others. She was claustrophobic due to her mother's boyfriend's abuse, being locked in the shed, but as long as she didn't go in too deep, she'd be all right.

     She had wandered off many times along the trails. Although this was illegal on account of damage to flora and risky in terms of potentially breaking a limb and such; she disregarded prudence in favor of irresponsibility's liberties. She cut across the landscape to save time. "Whheeeee! Screw Rob, and his perverted prick. Screw him and Mom for deserting me. Actually, they did me a favor, 'cause I'm free. And screw society while I'm on the subject!" She took long legged strides on the loose scree, cutting across switch backs on her downward's descent.

     Bluejays, startled from out of bushes, flew off in various air routes escaping her approach of flying debris and raucousness. They circled and double backed nonetheless interested in this weirdly behaving hominid, as if they, black crested feathered master's of provocation should have any room to talk, or should we say, squawk!

     She was struck with an impulsive chilling thought. The jays forced memories of the preying mantis' defense against being devoured. She realized that the mantis' slender frame resembled Slender Man. Her fears of this personage haunted her. She felt a tinge of fear's crawl on her neck's back side as it tingled downward her spine. She began to reconsider her stay at the cave. She forced the images of The Slender and Moth out of her mind.

     The cave was about two miles southeast of her. She figured she could reach it within an hour or thereabouts. She wore vibram soled heavy leathered boots. Each boot weighed about two pounds, no problem for her sinewed, muscular legs. The boots were worth their weight in that they not only protected her ankles from being twisted, but too, kept bits of rocks and scree out of her feet.

     "Hey Mr. Lizard!" She shouted skyward. "It's great to be alive!" The blue belly was two miles behind her. She was simply ecstatic with excitement. "I think I'm gonna spend the night at the mouth of that cave, not too deep, mind you, just at the entrance. I'm tired and just gonna chill."

     Heather stood at the mouth of the cave peering into its deepening shadow of darkness with distance perceived. She felt the chill of fear crawl up her spine this time more pronounced. The cold she felt outside in October's high altitude Sierras was sharp adding greater chills to the cave's looming proximity. "I don't know about this, after all. Gettin' late though, gotta gather some firewood."

     She dropped her backpack instantly feeling as if all of gravity released her to the weightlessness of space. She almost felt the fullness of floating skywards, akin to the feel one has when walking for miles, removing heavy shoes and running barefoot. She re- tracked her steps to gather dried pieces of kindling and weather cured conifer wood and some oak. She thought maybe she'd practice lighting a fire using frictional means with her small crossbow and spindle kit but opted against it; she was getting cold due to the air's chill and perspiration. 

     "I'll just light me a fire the next most primitive way I have at hand, not exactly flint rock and steel, but the good ol' magnesium bar way." She was known for her use of hyperbole and irony and found delight in her own monologues. She chuckled out loud and imagined hidden varmints like the reclusive marmot peering, enjoying her soliloquy.      "Mr. Marmot, you'd never know the difference between a magnesium bar and a friction fire kit, now would you?!" 

     "Okay if you don't tell anyone, I'll share my fire with you. How's that?" She spoke to the imagined mammal as if it in fact were present which was probable. She had seen various of the species jumping in and out of rocks, sunning themselves and whistling calls to each other. Their feces lay upon mountains of talus, warm comforts of evidence in their invisibility and ease of her loneliness.

     A fleeting thought crossed her pangs of hunger for fresh meat. "Sure would be a treat if I could catch one of your kind, no offense, but I do enjoy real meat now and then. It's been a while since I had a burger. It's okay Mr. Marmot, not tonight, come by and sit by my fire tonight."

     With an armful of wood, she trudged uphill back to the mouth of the cave. A marmot whistled in the near distance, a ravine, offshoot of a deep canyon at the base of the mountain she was on. "I knew you were watchin' Mr. Marmot, invitation's still open."

     She had a fire going in short order, having used the magnesium shavings and tinder. She carried a fifth of bourbon whiskey in her backpack; a glass bottle. She saved the alcohol for special occasions. Tonight was not special per se, but she felt she needed some warmth down her throat and a bit of soothing. 

     She was nervous about where she decided to make camp. She had a full view of the moonlit canyon below, quite dark and menacingly deep, an eerie juxtaposition to the black maw of cavern behind her fire. As the flames danced and sprang skyward, sparks, red and orange sparked airborne following the smoke's path. An ounce of whiskey for a tired fifteen year old girl at high altitude provided the same effect as if a forty year old man had drunk five or six shots. 

     She munched on granola and jerky while taking an occasional drink from her canteen. The moon hung off the cold grey, eastern horizon. She heard the howl of a wolf echo off the canyon's rim followed by the shriek of a mountain lion. "Dear God, help me find my way up here. I'm gonna cross these mountains and make my way along the Pacific Crest Trail with your help." 

     This trail was also known as the John Muir Trail, stretching from the Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico, all the way northward to Canada.

     "I'm heading south. At this rate I should reach the Mexican Sierras by next year September or there abouts." 

     She was well prepared in all areas of wilderness survival, a tough young hiker with tenacious attitude and determination. She was highly skilled in living off of nature's provisions including winter survival. Her knowledge was gained by an obsessive compulsive fortitude which involved learning by experience and voracious reading and studying media that pertained to all aspects of wilderness travel and survival. 

     Hers was not a survival minded mind set. She enjoyed living on the outside, in nature. She was an anomaly due to her age. While the majority of the world's fifteen year old denizens were busy following the dictates of parents and societal norms; she had increasingly learned to live outdoors, conditioning herself by an obstinate focus to escape her sordid past. 

     Heather stood at the mouth of the cave peering into its deepening shadow of darkness with increased depths into its foreboding interior. She felt the chill of fear crawl up her spine this time more pronounced. The cold she felt outside in October's high altitude Sierras was sharp, adding greater chills to the cave's looming proximity. "I don't know about this, after all. Gettin' late though, gotta gather some firewood."

     She dropped her backpack instantly feeling as if all of gravity released her to the weightlessness of outer space. She almost felt the fullness of floating skywards, akin to the feel one has when walking for miles, removing heavy shoes and running barefoot. She re- tracked her steps to gather dried pieces of kindling and weather cured conifer wood and some oak. She thought maybe she'd practice lighting a fire using frictional means with her small crossbow and spindle kit but opted against it; she was getting cold due to the air's chill and perspiration. 

     "I'll just light me a fire the next most primitive way I have at hand, not exactly flint rock and steel, but the good ol' magnesium bar way." 

     She was known for her use of hyperbole and irony and found delight in her own monologues. She chuckled out loud and imagined hidden varmints like the reclusive marmot peering, enjoying her soliloquy.

    "Mr. Marmot, you'd never know the difference between a magnesium bar and a friction fire kit, now would you?!"

     "Okay if you don't tell anyone, I'll share my fire with you. How's that?" She spoke to the imagined mammal as if it in fact were present which was probable. She had seen various of the species jumping in and out of rocks, sunning themselves and whistling calls to each other. Their feces lay upon mountains of talus, warm comforts of evidence in their invisibility and ease of her loneliness.

     A fleeting thought crossed her pangs of hunger for fresh meat. "Sure would be a treat if I could catch one of your kind, no offense, but I do enjoy real meat now and then. It's been a while since I had a burger. It's okay Mr. Marmot, not tonight, come by and sit by my fire tonight."

     With an armful of wood, she trudged uphill back to the mouth of the cave. A marmot whistled in the near distance, a ravine, offshoot of a deep canyon at the base of the mountain she was on. "I knew you were watchin' Mr. Marmot, invitation's still open."

     She had a fire going in short order, having used the magnesium shavings and tinder. She carried a fifth of bourbon whiskey in her backpack, in glass. She saved the alcohol for special occasions. Tonight was not special per se, but she felt she needed some warmth down her throat and a bit of soothing. She was nervous about where she decided to make camp.    

     She had a full view of the moonlit canyon below, quite dark and menacingly deep, an eerie juxtaposition to the black maw of cavern behind her fire. As the flames danced and sprang skyward, sparks, red and orange sparkled airborne following the smoke's path. An ounce of whiskey for a tired fifteen year old girl at high altitude provided the same effect as if a forty year old man had drunk five or six shots.

     She munched on granola and jerky while taking an occasional drink from her canteen. The moon hung off the cold grey, eastern horizon. She heard the howl of a wolf echo off the canyon's rim followed by the shriek of a mountain lion. "Dear God, help me find my way up here. I'm gonna cross these mountains and make my way along the Pacific Crest Trail with your help."  

     This trail was also known as the John Muir Trail, stretching from the Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico, all the way northward to Canada.

     "I'm heading south. At this rate I should reach the Mexican Sierras by next year September or there abouts." 

     "My first blizzard is gonna be scary, but hey, what's there to lose? I'm not afraid of dyin', I got the Lord with me, yea, though I walk through the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, thy rod and st . . . aff. 

     What the hell?" The sudden screech of the aptly named bird reverberated sharply off the deep, interior walls of the cave. 

     "Okay, I am afraid, who isn't. Just a dang screech owl. I gotta keep this fire going. She refrained from having built the fire too far inside the cave's mouth. Her shadow and that of her camp equipment and backpack cast flickering shadows on the cave's walls. Bats emerged from deep within flying past her head. 

     "Now don't go gettin' snarled in my hair guys, or else I'm gonna have to accuse you consistent with urban legend that you're attacking me. Just keep your sonar activated and flight course on target."

     "Tinkling stars where's my baby brother tonight? What's he doing? Twinkle, twinkle little stars how I wonder . . . Heather fell asleep. 

     *    *    *

     Was it a dream? She felt something in her face. She moved her hand up against it, for it to go away. It persisted. It was a presence up in her face. She was having a bad dream, a nightmare. Deep in sleep, she felt the need to get up and pee, a ritual act, it seemed that often occurred. An annoyance of necessity, she must deal with, and with it so cold outside of her sleeping bag.

     A gradual process to transition from deep REM's sleep to subconsciousness and the threshold of full wakefulness usually occurs during a certain time span unless interrupted. Nonetheless the groggy, haze of twilight between sleep and waking consciousness is unavoidable when sleep is being intermittently disrupted as with the urge to pee in the wee hours of the night.

     The presence in her face persisted, a heavy, black thing. She was dreaming and yet she could smell a foul animal like odor. She reached out her hand to brush the thing off her face. She touched some thing but couldn't awaken. 

     She sensed with her mind's eye now. The thing stood like a hominid, resembling the form of a man. She thrashed in her sleep, moved to her right shoulder, then left then face upward on her back. She smelled it again. The smell of cadaverine, rotting flesh. Her eyes fluttered briefly then opened in an instant to reveal a living nightmare. 

     In a groggy state of mind she almost instantly awakened to see by dim moonlight.

Reality revealed a real monster. It was fully present inches from her prone face. It was the mask, or "face" of a diabolical creature. It was leaned over reeking of death and scum, into Heather's face. It's foul mouth exuded crooked edges, ridges of what must be teeth in a grey black maw. It's head was twice the size of hers and seemed feathery furred. Glowing red eyes from hell's furnace burned into Heather's own. 

     She screamed.

     It was going to be another hot day. Glenda had walked all night; the second night. It was not easy. The heat exhausted her easily. Her pack weighed nearly 70 pounds. The sun wasn't two hours above the peaks yet, but gnats already hovered around her sweaty face, annoying her even more. She was irritable, paradoxically, considering the idyllic beauty.

     Her backpack was an army brown tan. The sides were frayed and tattered, borne of many years' use, adding a camouflaged attribute. An assortment of patches on her jeans blended with the soiled stains of many earth tones. She reached for her bandanna and wiped her sweaty forehead, belonging to a chiseled, bronze toned face. She hated the stickiness of sweat on her skin. She felt miserable, out of sorts and realized that at least she felt. She had sensation.

     Her brother had none. He had no sensation from his neck down. Her long distance treks in the back country of California's Sierra Nevada Mountains were solace for her brother's condition. She missed Theodore. They spent many years together trekking cross country over vast distances. Their passions for hiking and adventure were equal. They were soul mates. She missed Theo.

     She walked with a frustration and anger that she hadn't dealt with yet. Her anger remained unresolved, even after many years. One of her personal attributes by which friends recognized her was her tension. Friends' comments included her metaphorical reference to being a glass vessel dangerously prone to shatter and with it cut those in range to ribbons. So far she hadn't yet snapped, far from it out here in the wilderness.

     The wilderness helped her to cope, otherwise she may have leaped off a skyscraper by now, she had confided to a close friend.

     Glenda fell into a mesmerizing, automatic mountain trek of leg motions in her strides. She reflected the past as if a video were playing in her head. She would hit pause periodically as she reached certain frames of particular poignancy, Theodore had almost died; his spinal cord had almost completely snapped at his fall. He had fallen nearly 200 feet, bouncing and tumbling off a granite cliff's ledge. His fall had been broken only by loose scree at the bottom of a grass tufted ledge.

     The accident happened five years ago. Theodore was in a steady declination of death since then to the present. She thought of him as a wild caged bird. He couldn't speak due to the paralysis. Glenda thought that his eyes begged for her to kill him, but it was against her faith's beliefs.

     Anger continued to escalate in her again. "If only Theo could be here now, God!" 

     "God, I . . . !" She couldn't say it. She thought it, but she couldn't curse God."

     A cold tear slowly built-up in her right eye, gathered volume and drifted slowly down her cheek. Other tears followed its trail and then others fell from her left eye, released beyond her control to hold them back. The tears' combined flow accumulated down past her jaws, joining to become a stream onto her neck and beneath her blouse.

     Glenda's anger increased toward God. She felt humiliated to cry. She had done her iron- willed best to restrain the tears, but their release was beyond her ability to control. It seemed to her that God had won; she had blinked first.

     And yet. It felt good to cry. She felt an immense release of withheld pain. The anger melted away, replaced with a profound sadness which now affected her heart. Her heart seemed to fibrillate with a cool sensitivity. It felt as it an unseen hand was holding it, holding her chest with love's tenderness.

     She clenched her jaw, resolved to stop the tears' flows. She would not yield, not until Theo was either dead or healed. She had stopped walking momentarily, overcome with grief and now she firmly took another step of conviction forward. She was driven by an iron will.

     The pastel clouds had moved southeast somehow. She felt she had lost time. During her emotional release of tears and introspection toward Theo; time seemed to have stopped. Somehow she had walked to the point she now found herself. The sun still blazed above her, further up its zenith. The gnats remained behind somewhere, for whatever reason unable or unwilling to pursue her. Perhaps her strong two and one half mile per hour gait was too much for them.

     Tiny particles of granitic sand and grit shattered erosively under her boots' soles. Pleasant sounds to her ears, now calmed by tear's earlier release. Other than these sounds it was utterly quiet. No moving creatures of any kind anywhere near her. Her breathing was rhymic. The creaking of the backpack and her steps didn't count as sound. She loved the sound of walking, boots on granite. It was music. No other sound compared to it. It touched her soul and melted glass; her glass became silk, silken strands of acceptance. No drug, no therapist, no sauna could assuage her hurts like being outside, in the wilderness, alone. Except being with Theo!

     "God, I am sooo mad at you!" Her angry shout bounced off the rocks and sky above her, muffled only by tree's absorbing branches. Small birds appeared out of nearby shrubs and flew away from her. Formerly invisible, they served as reminders that she had violated reverence toward their creator. 

     For the first time she was able to express her anger to her invisible God. 

     "You could have prevented his death, Dad . . . , " She stopped short of uttering Daddy, an address she often used in addressing him before Theo's accident. 

     "You could have prevented him from being paralyzed God. He's not dead, but he may as well be!"

     She quickly realized one of her mistakes in shouting out. Firstly, someone would surely have heard her outburst. She had avoided the main trails. She had to. People were looking for her. The prisons in this New World with its new world order rules were full of people like her, people of faith, people who were unwilling to accept the new world order's mark. The mark was not a tattoo she was willing to receive.

     Secondly, she realized that she had yelled at God.