The Abyss

The abyss is a mole in lush forestry. Oaks sway against pine, weeds whisper to thorns. Dirt is humbled by clumps of mud surrounding a shallow stream, where deer lick at the froth, otters ride the currents, and perch nibble their way downstream. Downstream to the abyss. But that was of no matter, not with the butterflies fluttering blossom to blossom. Not with the squirrels bouncing branch to branch. Not with the maggots so far away. So deep below. It was of no matter. Really. Peacefulness cannot be perturbed. Not here.

Nothing stirred for anything except a breeze. The only shadows were contrived by passerby clouds. There were no battles apart from that of the sprouts, which rose from mulch, twining upwards towards light muffled by branches up higher. Yet there was the abyss. A perch was caught in the perpetual liquid force, slipping through a net of algae, tumbling into darkness. Another whipped downwards, head smashing against a rock, blood a weave in the water that was unraveled by the ripples of flapping otters. One after another fish were swallowed.

An oak groaned. Pebbles fell away from the abyss edge, followed by fluffs of dust. Roots appeared, stiff worms that squirmed warily as they were exposed to air breathed never before. Deer ran away from the collapsing land, but hooves tangled in weeds, antlers entwined with the branches of falling trees.

A shadow stretched across the forest like darkness from a falling sun, like a black-armored army infiltrating a field of immobile pawns. Life was devoured, digested in the churning depths of oblivion, excreted as a smeared reflection of its former glory. A reflection of roses in a puddle of acid. A reflection of death in a precursor of fate.