The Descent
The ridge loomed before him—barren, exposed, merciless.
No trees. No cover. Just wind, sun, and the long way down.
He sized up the climb. Narrow grips. A weather-beaten ascent. No room for error.
The wood looked old. Worn from years of use. Splintered in spots.
One bad step and he’d go down hard.
He reached for the first rung. It groaned under his weight.
He climbed anyway.
Each board flexed beneath his boots.
Dry. Brittle. Untrustworthy.
His palms burned against the sun-bleached handrails as he pulled himself higher.
Halfway up, a gust of wind nearly knocked him sideways.
He grabbed the railing, felt it shift slightly under his grip.
Below, the world spun in dizzy silence.
He sucked in air through his teeth. Kept climbing.
Higher now. His calves throbbed. Sweat rolled down his spine.
This ridge wasn’t built for men like him.
But there was no turning back.
At the top, the platform swayed slightly under his boots—just a few planks nailed together, no guardrails. Nothing between him and the fall but his own balance.
He looked down.
The descent dropped away into twisting darkness. A narrow, enclosed passage he couldn’t see the end of.
He hesitated.
Just a breath.
Then stepped off the edge.
He dropped fast.
Too fast.
His back slammed into a curve, then another. Light spun in flashes.
He twisted, tried to slow himself, but the walls offered no grip.
His body turned sideways, upside down, stomach inside out.
The wind screamed past his ears.
Then—impact.
He hit the ground with a thud, bark chips spraying out beneath him.
A voice snapped, “Watch it, dude!”
He blinked.
A woman stood just feet away, diaper bag slung across one shoulder, toddler clinging to her yoga pants, blinking up at him like he was Bigfoot.
“You almost landed on my kid,” she said.
He groaned. Tried to sit up.
Felt bark mulch stuck to his cheek.
Air returned to his lungs in ragged gasps.
From behind him, the yellow plastic slide shimmered in the sun, still wobbling from his descent. Then a voice rang out from the top:
“Do it again, Daddy!”
