The editors of the Melancholy Predator would like to apologize for a typo in last week's Abstract Melancholy Challenger. Change one of the “left”s to a “right” and it will make much more sense. We would also like to take this moment to announce that all criticism and comments are welcome, and can be directed to the Predator c/o BJ Leopold @ 141 B Perkins Rd., Rochester, NY 14623 or at <BJL4009@rit.edu>. Thanks.

Abstract Melancholy Challenger #2

On the third switchback towards heaven, the perils resurfaced and redoubled. The first thing they noticed was the nostril. Too small to be a cave, it looked like a huge stake had been driven into and then forcibly removed from the mountainside. Though not an unusual feature of the local landscape, this particular pit was whispering a hot, salty wind over the ragged, diminished band of travelers. Ragged because they had already passed through two other dangerous switchbacks on this trail, and diminished because on those two sections of road about half of their original number had turned back. A few ran wailing down the mountain path until they tripped and fell headfirst into nothing, the rest just slowly shook their heads and started trudging back down towards the trailhead. When the huge face lifted itself off the rocks and into their vision, the whole band stopped walking. Like a pack of rabbits, they froze and stared at the cobra as if hoping it wouldn't see them. They knew, or some of them did at least, that it wouldn't matter if the snake saw them or not at this point, it could virtually pinpoint them by smell alone. Those who knew readied themselves for the torturous run through the perilous ground. The last test, as the remaining travelers had come to think of the periodic threats, had been more subtle. The path had started to get muddy so gradually that they hardly noticed until they were ankle-deep. Then when the front of the pack crested the next rise in the path, they found themselves in a standoff with the edges of a flooded river, whose runoff they'd been sloshing through. But that, at least, had been passive. This new, living hunting power was fantastically menacing. But the travelers, those that lived through the pure fear of the encounter, persevered, thinking they knew their goal was near. Thinking they knew that their objective existed, that it was good, and that they would be allowed in.
They were wrong.

- Betsy Hawke