Something solid, pea-sized, lingered at the end of his throat. He swallowed his saliva repeatedly to force it down, gulping several times, but the lumpy feeling remained. After much dedication to this throat issue, he started feeling a coppery tang at the tip of his tongue, sharp and a little nauseating. He recognized that taste, though he didn’t know how. Follow current novᴇls on Nove1Fire.net
Had he eaten a copper wire before?
Or was it just blood on his tongue? Had he bitten his tongue accidentally? No, blood tastes like iron, not copper. He knew that.
That was one sense malfunctioning... Time to try the next.
But the air smelled of a ridiculously large variety of substances, or feelings... or, still, nausea.
The first to hit him was an awful acrid smell, acidic and pungent, and it threatened to take his breath away should he inhale once more. But he did, and he was still alive for the next round.
Another choking smell made a home run—pungent, deadly. This time, it was a thick smoke that reeked of burnt... wire.
Did he have a deal with wires?
He tasted wire, perceived wire... That was two sense organs in the bin. They must be malfunctioning, because there was just no way in hell he was going through all that weirdness in some dazed state.
Should I try my sight?
All he heard was the sound of what seemed to be a steel-hard boot stepping on jawbreakers—a kind of hard candy that makes the loudest noise when your teeth work on it.
Oh, that didn’t sound like wires.
Until he heard a "crack" and a "whoosh," and what sounded like something or someone being beaten with... a wire.
Let me feel around. I hope I don’t touch a wire. For heck’s sake, I bet I do.
But he only grabbed thin air. He didn’t know if his hands had even moved. This scared him.
Grabbing a wire would have unhinged him, but grabbing nothing almost made him shit his pants. Was he alone? He loved being lonely, but he hated being alone. That was a wild preference or way of thinking, but that was just him.
Also, the position he was in wasn’t comfortable in the very least. His head felt three times bigger, as all his blood seemed to flow up there. Gravity was meant to pull at his feet, but he couldn’t feel his long hair on his face. Was he in space? In a zero-gravity zone, like he was taught by some loose-nut teacher?
Pushing away the fear, he was however glad he didn’t grab a wire. He feared he’d have screamed should he feel something long and thin and rubbery in his hands. But what was certain?
He didn’t even know if he existed. What was he? Was he just a memory? Hazy, lingering like a thick fart in the pants of a silent bomber? Was he something created from a thought? Perhaps from the ever-expanding fantasy of an adventurous kid? Was someone watching him on a screen now, rewinding and forwarding his existence, tweaking the hell out of his being?
He flicked his eyes open instantly, almost busting his lids to shreds. He’d forgotten about the screen. It took a while for his vision to focus, but when it did, believe it or not, he saw... wires.
Or ropes? Or twigs? Natural... thick, coiling in and out of his vision. He felt one move slowly, like a rubbery finger cupping his lower face in a comely but threatening manner.
He screamed. "Aaaaaaaaa!"
Crazed for a little moment, he flapped his hands violently, trying to break free from the twigs that had embraced him gravely. He tried to follow the maniacal motion with his legs too, but they were following an entirely different story in a different timeline of their own.
His legs had practically been snatched off him, held and bound tightly by the twigs; he couldn’t even succeed in moving them an inch. The two legs lay up there, still part of his body but less obedient to his control, completely covered by the ever-moving natural ropes.
And, as he had felt before he opened his eyes, he was indeed hanging upside down.
Searching the dark area with his eyes—the only part of him which could still move—he realized he was caught in a thicket, if this could classify as a thicket. It was more or less a willow tree, stupendously large and tall. He could see two moons—wait, two?!—dimly from the little spaces left by the branches, and he knew he must be at least 30 feet from the ground.
One of the moons was regular, silvery and crescent-shaped, partially engulfing a bright star in its space. The other moon had an orange glow, full and looking very sharp at the edges. It looked more like a large flat circle rather than spherical and planet-like.
He was amazed how he seemed worried about the moon despite the situation he was in. The tree had succeeded in securing his arms too, and all that was left in his control was his stomach, which moved up and down as he breathed heavily, and his eyes, which were ever searching.
But what was there to search for? He was entrapped, and he might even start believing in miracles if he managed to survive this... this... carnivorous plant.
’Yes, it’s a flesh eater, ’cause I don’t know why you’re grabbing me like that if not to eat.’
Suddenly, he heard the faint sound of... again, a steel-hard boot stepping against jawbreakers, coming from over his head. He was worried about whatever was moving in the air, making that hell of a noise, then he remembered he was not obeying gravity like a normal human.
’They are moving from below. There are people here. Maybe they can help.’
So, he yelled. A throat-wretching cry, but what use was his throat if a tree was going to eat him.
"Help! I’m stuck up here!"
Then the loud stepping sounds stopped. Maybe the walker had just taken a grassy path that silenced his steps, or the hard ground had just run out of jawbreakers.
Eric waited, silent, his heavy breath the only sound reaching him in the tree.
’Uh-oh. Guess they left. I’d leave too if I heard a bitch-ass cry for help like that. Who knows if–’
He saw a bright silvery arc fly towards his face, cutting the thick branches in its way, slicing easily as if they were nothing but fresh hot loaves of bread. He snapped his eyes shut, scared his neck was going to be the next loaf. Waiting for a while, he realized his senses were still connected. Maybe his loaf was stale after all and had grown some surface-level resistance to the baker’s knife.
’I belong in the bin.’
Suddenly, a branch snapped noisily, disrupting the still, cold night. He dropped, falling.