Hey, do you think I could get some people’s opinions on this? I wrote it and have been thinking of submitting it to a literary magazine, but I want to make sure its good enough. Its called “Sepulcher”.
The northern Alaskan winter is an entity itself that brings death upon any who traverse its frozen existence.
In the mountains, coffee, thrown from a cup, solidifies instantaneously, and shatters on the barren rock. Just a handful of people have ever crossed the face of the beast and lived to recount their tales of near death, close calls, and bitter cold. But some are not quite so fortunate. Some, like Barry Kneedles, succumb to the ice, for an eternity in an arctic sepulcher.
This was it for Barry, the culmination of his life, all he had worked for. Since his childhood he had dreamed of the North Pole. He dreamed of the magical sensation of standing atop the world. And, at a mere thirty four years old he had made his fortune, or rather inherited it, and was, as far as he was concerned, king of the world. It was time for him to take his throne.
Greg was one of his life long friends, and a fellow conspirator, with whom he sustained a steady streak of mischief; this was not a plan Barry meant to keep Greg out of. Together they trained in the mountains of Montana, bearing hundred pound packs over countless scores of miles. And in the resting period following this, they planned the final expedition; he and Greg were insistent on taking a path never before navigated by human feet. They endured three weeks of sleep deprivation, hunched over maps planning their route. They obtained permission form the local government and booked a private plane to fly them to the small town from which the would outset.
The night before they took the plane out of Montana, neither could sleep and they laid in bed all night until the sun rose, bathing each separate man in a warmth they would not feel ever again. Both men rose from their bed wide awake, despite the lack of rest.
They met at Webster’s Park where family and friends gathered to bid them farewell. A small barbeque had been organized and their were hamburgers and frankfurters enough to go around thrice. However, during the festivities Barry noticed Greg retreat to a park bench, gripping his chest. A small “L” shaped inhaler slid from his pocket and into his mouth where he depressed the canister and slumped against the bench. His breathing was restored to normal as Barry sat next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned to Greg and consoled him and his fears. Greg’s spirits returned as the music was turned up and he went to dance with his wife. Barry too returned to the festivities and his own spouse.
The time for departure was an emotional one. A tear dropped from every eye as goodbye was said. Each and every person promised to see the duo again although their deepest fears could not be contained as the tiny droplets turned to gushing rivers from a rather large group of more emotional people.
The bags were loaded and Greg waited on the curb for his wife to return with the kids from school. He checked his watch, knowing he could not afford to miss the plane and knowing just as much, his own sanity couldn’t afford not saying goodbye to his children. Then, a few blocks away he saw a black sedan racing down the strip. The car came to a screeching halt and two kids jumped out the door. They were small, just barley over three and a half feet, and each with a mess of blonde hair upon their heads. The two twin boys had darling smiles and eyes as blue as the ocean. The raced up to their father who wrapped the both of them up in a tight hug. He let them go and rested a kiss on each of their foreheads. He stopped to remind them that he would return soon, and that he loved them, before rejoining Barry in the pickup truck.
The drive to the airport was silent, each one enveloped in their own thoughts. Greg couldn’t believe he was doing it; and he wanted to back out. He had a bad feeling, like he would not breathe the fresh Montana air again. On the other hand, Barry simply couldn’t believe he was finally doing it. After years of planning, he would sit on top of the world.
They flew across Canada in an rickety old plane and landed in an old rickety town. After they landed, it took them less than thirty seconds to walk over to the local tavern where they were scheduled to meet their guide. They pushed open the wooden door to the din of a well occupied bar. Off in the far corner, a jukebox was blasting music that no one could hear over the cheers of poker winners, the songs of drunkards, and the everyday hubbub. They dropped their gear at the door and hung up their jackets, welcoming the warmth that the large hearth and the heat of multiple bodies provided. They ordered two drinks and sat down in a booth at the far side of the room, where it was considerably quieter and where the guide had told them to meet him. They finished their drinks quickly and ordered another round, all the while busying themselves with the multiple inscriptions carved into the table. After Barry had finished examining the table he looked at his watch and grumbled about the guide being late. Less than five minutes passed before the bar door swung open and a large snow drift fell in, followed by a heavily coated man. He bulldozed his way through the patrons and met Barry and Greg at the table. He did not sit as he informed them that their guide had fallen ill and was not predicted to recover for well over a week. The man advised them to wait it out at the local inn as it was too dangerous to try to go it alone and there was not another guide around for six hundred miles. They spoke quietly to each other about this new and unfortunate predicament. They reached a verdict and when they turned to face the man, he was no longer there.
They were an impatient bunch and marched right up to the door and gathered their gear. They grunted noisily as they hoisted their packs to their shoulders and strutted out the door. The next ten minutes were spent marching through the diminutive town. After that it was nothing but the expanse of the white washed tundra.
Their first day vitality drew them twenty five miles into the wasteland. They passed through a valley, where off in the distance (but not so far away as not to be feared) they heard the rumbling of an avalanche. This occurrence slapped them with the cold palm of reality and they stopped for a rest. Afterward they were faced with trudging up and over a mountain before they decided that camp needed to be set up.
The night came quick and they were stuck in the dark setting up their tents. After they got into the warm enclosure, Barry took off his shoes and noticed his right foot was numb. He looked at his boot and noticed a tear in the sole where ice had seeped in and frozen his foot. He treated it quickly, dousing it in cool water, then gradually raising the temperature. They welded his shoe together with some plastic and a high powered lighter, then spent the next day inside while Barry’s foot healed. They spoke about their friendship. They spoke about the years they spent growing up together since childhood. About the plans that never came to fruition, and the ones that did. They spoke about the task at hand, Greg focusing on the work and the danger, and Barry focusing on the adventure and excitement.
When they left, six o’ clock in the morning, a day and a half after they set up camp, they packed up their gear in record time and began their second day of marching. After about four hours, they came upon a relatively steep decline and set down it with great care. Not even halfway from the bottom, a massive wind knocked Barry to the ground.
Snow blew all around and Barry was lost in the pandemonium. He curled up in a ball and waited for it to end. When at last the storm had relaxed to a degree where Barry could see, he traipsed around, calling for Greg.
His ears perked up at the sound of wheezing and Barry had to assume that Greg was having an asthma attack due to the excitement of the storm and all the snow he must have breathed in. When he reached Greg, his theory was proven correct, Greg’s breath was shallow and panicked. The tore at his chest as Barry rummaged around for the inhalor. The damned thing was packed away at the bottom of the bag and by the time he retrieved it, Greg had just about lost consciousness. He shoved the thing in Greg’s mouth and Greg inhaled as deep as he could, waiting for the release the medicine inside would bring. But Barry could not push the canister down; he was horrified to find the entire thing frozen solid.
Tears iced on his face, and turned into tiny icicles on his beard as he laid his eyes upon the twisted blue corpse that had once housed the soul of his best friend Greg.
His eyes fuzzed out and the world became a blinding white. He muttered incoherent obscenities at god and passed out in the snow.
He woke up groggy, and with not a clue as to what he was doing with his face in snow. He sat up and looked around. His eyes settled on a picturesque sight of the sun set above, and directly to the right of, a mountain peak that had just the perfect cone of snow atop its crown. Then his eyes spun down and he saw Greg, and remembered.
Weeping softly, he sorted through his companion’s pack and took only what he needed to get back to town. Then he observed the insufficient sunlight. He raced to set up his tent and fire but the sun moved too quickly and was soon nestled comfortably behind the mountains. The air instantly chilled, and then darkness encompassed him in its shroud of death.
The bitter cold took a lot from Barry and he grew lightheaded. His body went numb. Then the great beast swallowed him whole.