Mountain Lake by Jake Rawdin

At the base of the mountain, they told him about a lake. They told him it was beautiful. They told him that if he didn’t find something there he wasn’t looking.    

So he drove the mountain road. They didn’t tell him it was closed. He saw it winding up the side, switchbacking into clouds. He saw a gate that said Road Closed for Winter. But the road itself was clear. There was snow, but it hadn’t stuck to the pavement. He parked the car in front of the gate. He put on his boots. He filled a pack with a flashlight, lighter, extra socks. He took a knife.    

The snow crunched as he stepped off the road, and he looked back. The car would be all right. No one was coming. No one could come. That was good.    

He followed the road up, and the clouds followed it down. Where they met, it was fog. It was thick, so he went on the road. The pavement had less give than the ground, and in the cold, the steps shook his knees. But that was all right. He came down into the valley, and the fog became cloud. A ceiling.    

The lake was cold and still and green. The mountains rose and disappeared, and he was alone. There was nothing. He crushed a pebble underfoot, and the crack echoed. It went around the valley and up into the clouds. He wanted to shout, but instead, he hummed. It was a low note. It carried up. He sat and hummed again. He sat until it began to get dark. Then it was dark.

© 2012 Jake Rawdin

Jake Rawdin is 23 years old, born in Philadelphia. He runs a blog at www.flashfictionmosaic.wordpress.com

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