Playground by Voss Foster

It looms over you, a monster to slay. Metal struts stretch on for miles above your head, worn down by the footsteps of your peers. The first rung bends under your weight, sending vibrations ricocheting through the metal skeleton, and your hands start to go numb as you climb up, gripping the rails until it hurts. Was it one hundred steps? One thousand? Ten thousand? Nervous giggles explode out of you. Closing your eyes, you make the final step up—the wind crushing against you; you fighting to stay up on the perch; the metal—cold—as your hands wrap, if possible, even more tightly around the handrails. The red, plastic maw—skid marks slinking down its gullet—roars voraciously up upwards with every stray gust of wind that dares pass by. Every blood vessel you have runs cold with liquid nitrogen until your bones feel like they’ll shatter from the nervous shaking. Somewhere down there, voices prod you to give in and slip into the darkness, but that’s a different world altogether. “Come on. Take your turn!” says some poor defenseless vagrant, a mindless drone serving the monarchy of the hungry beast, as he scales the creature’s back behind you, fire in his every word. “You’re hogging it!” Then a blast of force assaults your spine, and you topple headlong towards the wide-flung jaws, but your hands, in a death grip, save you from mortal peril. “Just go!” another voice screams, and you take what may well be your final steps, resigning yourself to the cold song of death as you lower your legs into the its hot, humid throat. The creature rumbles back at you, calling you down, and, while saying your final prayer to God, you let go.

© 2011 Voss Foster

Voss Foster lives in the middle of the Eastern Washington State desert. When he can be pried away from his computer, he enjoys photography, cooking, singing, playing trombone, and a good cup of coffee. More of him can be found at http://vossfoster.blogspot.com

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