1:
The night was dark and windy. The constant shuffling of leaves in the borreal forest around him was a splash of auditory radiance. The constant batter of the invisible foe relentlessly rapping his shirt to and fro. The air was sharp, cold, piercing. There was almost no escape from it out here. Nothing seemed to be willing enough to stand a battle against the sharp-edged attacker. The trees shaked, rattled, and rolled in the night of frosty air. The cold bitterness of the night air slowly invaded his hands as he ascended the snow ladened mountain. His snow-shoes reaking a heavy footprint in the soft powdery substance that drowned the place of all natural visible land. Each step was a grueling alteration of movement. After three days of treking through a vast land of constant drift and debris, he was glad he would soon find exit; the only place he could find refuge in was his primary objective. It was a place of warmth, food, and friends. His face was was red from the oncoming wind; with nothing to protect his face he was suspected to the full wretchedness of the arctic winds. All -25 degrees of it. It didn't matter to him though, either way he was going to make it; dead or alive.
He was ascending only the beginning of the mountain now. It was a slowly rising steep giving off to another angle of steepness scattered with giant slivers of ancient rock blasted by years of wind and blundered by millenia of snow. They must be solid as fuck, he thought, and slowly he climbed.
The beginning wasn't so tough, with gravity only as minor threat and with the weight in his backpack, he knew he was definetly up for the challenge. He has been in these kind of situations before in training camp. They forced him to camp in the most horrid of conditions with the intent to train and harden an individual to his most extreme physical and mental capabilities. It got as serious as kidnapping and having to survive to see loved ones again, regular walky-talky radio messages reporting when the mission is done, and if, at any moment, he doesn't repsond to a radio message, it would be one of his family members who dies. Never once has he failed a mission. Never once.
The snow was still thick and soft but he knew it had a depth of at least a few feet and he knew that he certainly wouldn't be walking on land anytime soon, he could count on that. The moon hung directly behind him, pleasnantly illiminating his trek up the mountain side. He had a slight feeling of grattitude for that solid piece of rock floating silenty out there; putting forth its sympathetic beacon of light, offering to give help to the tiny creature trailing up the mountain with a quest. He felt the moon was watching him from behind with such sympathy that he couldn't help but break a tiny smile on his way up. And yet he felt in it such curelty that he never once looked at it. It was too cold.
2.
The dusty sandscape stood silent in the midst of the hot summer day. Grains of sand blew silently through the air, sliding up and down the dunes in smooth, soundless fashion. There wasn't a cloud in the sky as Mat observed, looking first at the lifeless wasteland in which he stood then upwards, towards and endless blue sky.
Showing no gesture of mercy, the sun continued to cast out its brilliant light and dry heat upon him. Looking around, he saw no trace of life, help, or any sign that anybody or anything has been here.
He cast his gaze to the ground around him. Nothing. Not even his own foot prints. Confused and afraid, he looked back up, hoping that something, might come into view. All he could see was the gold-tanned glow of the sand that drowned these lands long ago and that constant drifting dust that seemed never to stop.
A sense of lonliness and despair took hold of him as his hands started to temble and a wave of inescapable nausea crept up on him like a day in paradise ruptured by a roar of thunder and a downfall of hail and rain thereafter.
The dusty dry desert wind blew his hair back askew as he looked into the wind for some form of salvation from this land he feared he would surely die in, lest help somehow arrived that could take him away from the baron dry lands which now stood in his mind as his future burial ground.
An endless horizon, a never-ending painting with two sides and only two colours, surely this wasn't what he had in mind for his place of death. How could he escape? He could start walking but how long would he survive with that unrelenting ball of heat above him glaring down on him without any sort of refuge or water for that matter?
The dry whisper of the wind was the only audible sound his ears could hear. It was almost hypnotizing. He felt he could undoubtly fall asleep to the harmony of the wind had he actually been comfortable with his current situation, no water, food, or any idea how he got here in the first place. All he knew was that he was somehow lost and without any idea where he was or how he arrived.
He continued to stare at the sandy plains which engulfed his existence. Before he could take a single step from where he was standing, his hair fell flat and the wind died. The whisper had ceased and the land stood still. Waiting, waiting for something or perhaps he was waiting for something. A white pillow of a cloud silently drifted across the sun, darkening a wide radius around him, turning the once sparkling, gleaming sand to a dull, rotten colour.
The air seemed to humidify and the temperature dropped and became cooler. The hairs on his arms stiffined as if some massive electrical storm were headed his way. The single white cloud that stood in front of the sun had ceased any motion at all and just floated there, as if waiting to be evapourated by the sun's immense heat. Looking up at the single cloud in the otherwise crystal clear day, he wasn't quite sure but he saw something up there. Some distant object bathed in the mist of the single luminous object in the sky, hanging, floating, illuminating a goldish hue to the surrounding vapours.
The object protruded entirely from the cloud and Mat could see clearly that it was some kind of box. "A treasure chest!" Mat burst out with astonishment and amazement. He didn't notice at first his brown hair shifting to the side and that dry whistle picking up once again until a grain of sand flew into his right eye but he continued to peer up at the wonderous and mysterious chest that suspended in the sky. It was the most extraordinary and strange magic Mat has ever seen.
He blinked several times in attempt to get rid of the sting in his right eye. He felt the wind pick up and that dry whisper soon became a violent whistle sparking a devine fear inside for he believed something was approaching. And he was right, what he saw at first was a distant figure, far across the land, gliding towards him with impressive speed and intensity that he could hear the steady flap of its wings as it neared. The sound he heard was like a giant flag forayed by unwavering gusts of wind, strong and relentless and it was getting closer and stronger, louder. Mat stood staring, as the whistling of the ambient wind grew louder and the hideous beating sound of wings became deafening.
3.
Sitting in the drywall dust covered camping chair in the converted barn in his backyard, Mat sat quietly, contemplatively. Thinking about what to do next, what to steal, what to win, what to claim.
He took a long draw on his spliff, held it, trying to capture the maximum effect of the chemicals he was inhaling, wanting to become intoxicated by it, to revel in its wonderous abilities to dilute one's reality into a vast and open sea of thought.
He blew the smoke up to the ceiling light, the smoke swirling around in the heat of the bulb like night creatures drawn to a fly zapper.
He stared at the complex unsolvable pattern of the air-filled smoke, as if all the answers to all his questions lay in there. Staring, concentrating, he watched as the smoke withered and dispersed into the atmosphere of the room, leaving a distinct pungent ordor; the unmistakable trace of marijuana being burned, consumed, used.
Mat brought his right leg off the wooden floor and onto his left knee, an effective relaxation technique when idling or pondering. The joint was burning slow and strong. "Some good weed" he commented to not only himself but to the family of squirrels resting peacefully in the loft above. It had been a cold winter, albeit for the random warm fronts that brought with them rain and sometimes hail, all of which in turn caused mat the desire for intensive heating and insulation.
It was fairly warm in there and Mat was wearing no winter coat for there was no need. The squirrels above him on the other hand could not feel a single wave of heat from his propane heater due to the complete enclosure of the room. He drew another toke out of the slow and pleasantly burning joint. In but a few minutes it would be ecstuinguished and nothing more than a resinous roach fit for the ashtray or perhaps a gift for one of his less than fortunate smoking buddies. He wondered if there were others out there doing ust as he were; enjoying a safe and harmless substance all by one's self. Some people have said that smoking alone is a burden act of depressing qualities, but for Mat, this was his way of digging into his mind, digging tunnels and clearing away fallen rubble and debris. The best part of it all was that he was utterly alone. Alone to think, to ponder, plan, dream.
He turned his vision towards the perplexing movement of the fire fueled by a constant supply of propane. It was the sole source of the heat in the room. It turned a frigid stale room where the hands of cold gripped and strangled life out of the unsuspecting and turned it into a warmth-filled get-away, a second-rate paradise in which he could retreat to freely and comfortably. There was a polished wooden oak coffee table in the middle of the rectangular barn room which supported a bong, a bag containing some of the most potent bud in the neighbourhood, and an assortment of valuable merchandise and cash from his latest heist. His latest heist proved to be a financial success and another check off his list of victims.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: I REALLY DON'T FEEL LIKE PARAGRAPHING THIS WHOLE THING, FUCK IT)
He managed to brake in unnoticed, silently creeping along the dim hallway untill he accidentally kicked what might have been a dog's chewing bone or a children's toy. Two things happened at once: his heart did double time, his hands becoming moisture dispencers and he heard the sound of footsteps at the other end of the hall. He had to do something. He diligently backtraced his steps towards to the window of which he entered until he realized that it had slid shut on its own accord. The window was a task in itself to open for it took him almost a whole three minutes to open it without making the slightest noise. Ruthlessness was not Mat's specialty and he wanted to do this right, un-detected. He had the choice to bail out of the scene all-together while letting the homeowner know that he had a break-in or hide somewhere in the depths of the dwelling. He chose the later option, finding a spot behind a leather sofa across from the window, crouching next to a wodden girraffe that stood silent guard of the house. He could hear the homeowner lazily dragging his feet across the hardwood floor and paused in the kitchen area. Mat supposed that whoever it was was waiting for any kind of abnormal sound that might indicate the source of suspicion. His heart thumped triumphantly in his chest and secretly prayed that the owner couldn't hear his chest's revertebrating drum beat. Seconds passed with Mat trying to breathe as lightly as he could, knowing that any alien noise could destroy the whole operation. Although this was a tiny job compared to others he has done, he desperately didn't want to fail this heist; thousands of dollars were tucked away in a safe of which he intended to gain access to. The homeowner wadded to the refridgerator, rummaged through and brought out a dish full of left-over food. He unwrapped it and put it into the microwave. A nerve misfired in Mat's system, shocking him into a dim rage for that he certainly didn't feel like hiding behind a godamn couch while his victim ate pleasurably, taking his time. He had other things to do, beside this is an easy job and it should not and will not be any more difficult than it has been. Mat reached into his side pocket and brought out the cannister in front of him. A grim smile spread over his face but died as suddenly as it came. He left his supplies outside the window, although he didn't actually think it would come to this. It was already 3:00 but the home's owner felt more hungry that sleepy. Pasta always did the trick. He always had left-overs for a quick fix, first to the microwave then to his belly. Pasta has always been his most second favourite food compared to the delicious donuts he always brought home after work from the bakery, but tonight he desired pasta more than ever. If his hunger hadn't woken him up, he thought, he might never had been able to fullfill an appetite like tonight. He licked his lips in desire. But first, as his mother used to say, "if he had to tinkle, he best do so", and thus he went prompyly after the dish in the microwave was set to three minutes on high. "Perfect", Mat gleamed as he watched the overweight man lazily tumble away into the darkness of the hallway and shut a door behind him. "Piss time for fatty". This was his chance to grab his mask and set off the wonderfully useful sleeping gas. He'd had done this before on two occasions but only as a last resort. This was certainly not a last resort but mostly a lazy attempt to get things done and over with, the sooner the better. He got up from his less than perfect hiding spot from behind the sofa and dashed across the living room towards to window that operated as his means of entering and escaping. He forcefully lifted it up this time, not taking his time as before, the window generating a pleasantly audiable "schreee" sound as it allowed passage. He leaned forwards, his belly pressing against the sill reaching for the bag with his outstretched arms. He grasped a strap and hauled the bag up with its contents he had packed for "just in case". It contained a pellet gun, a halloween mast of the horror villain Michael Myers, fake blood, a lock pick, a crowbar, and a gas mask. He intended only to use one of the items from the ensemble but remembering the halloween mask brought a new light to the definition of what "fun" is. He brought the pack up to his chest after fully climbing back into the house and took out the gas mask along with the halloween mask. Hopefully the mask was big enough to fit over the gas mask or he would have to quickly switch masks when he opened up the can of sleeping gas on the unsuspecting fat man. Mat heard the sound of a toilet flushing and then the flow of water from a faucet. He knew his time was running short so he threw the backpack out the window, closed the annoyingly noisy window, and dashed to cover behind the sofa with gas mask in one hand, halloween mask in the other and a smile on his face.
None.
