SENIOR PROSE
FIRST PRIZE

THE LAST CHOICE

Norman Brathwell lay on the ground, his eyes wide. The last thing he could remember was drifting into a deep comfortable sleep after a long, hard week at the office.

But where was he now? He couldn't remember.

He was dazed. He looked blankly around him, at the lifeless, black trees. There were no sounds, save a hollow whisper of wind blowing through the brittle limbs, and the rustling of dead leaves.

He looked at the black sky and felt the hard, cold ground beneath him. This strange land was too real to be a dream, but somehow, too unreal to be true!

He could think of nothing now except that he had to move. He knew that he must not stay any longer.

Brathwell stood up. He wondered which way to go. He looked about for a path, and found one. It ran in a straight line, downhill. Mindlessly, he ran towards the path, thinking of only getting away.

As he ran he felt the air thicken and chill.
He stopped suddenly and stared fearfully into the darkness ahead. He felt he must go on, but there was a coldness ahead, a deadness that told him to turn back.

He looked behind him. There was no path for him to follow in that direction; the terrain was rough and uphill. Yet, in the distance he could see a light breaking through the darkness. It was a warm light, and it beckoned to him to go back.

He looked ahead of him again, as if to compare the two ways. Now, for the first time, he noticed a fire burning in the distance. It was a large fire, but strangely, it was a cold fire. The blackness was thicker in that direction, but the path was well trodden, and downhill.

All Barthwell knew was the he must go on! He turned back, towards the light, and began to climb the hill. He felt a certain warmth in this direction and sensed he would be safer this way. He didn't know why.

The hill was steep and he had to make his way through thorn bushes and jungles of entangled vines.

He could not see the light anymore. The dark sea of treacherous bushes had blocked it out. He had no guide lines now, and would have to rely on his senses.

He was becoming very tired, but thrashed doggedly on, his hands becoming sore. He saw that his jacket was catching on the thorns and holding him back, and found it easier to remove his clothes and continue naked. He knew he hadn't much time left.

Suddenly, He tripped on a large vine and fell heading towards a rock that jutted up from the ground.

It hurt him. He found he was bleeding slightly and began to really feel the pain. But strangely, the pain was not physical. It didn't hurt in the same fashion that his hands and legs were hurting him. Instead, it reminded him of an awful time, long ago, when he had hurt someone else...

He was wasting time. There was no time for remembering. He knew time was running short. How foolish he was to have chosen this direction! He thought of how much easier it would have been to have taken the the path towards the fire. So what if it was a little colder in that direction!

Then he noticed it. To his right was a path. It was well trodden also, and it, too, led towards the cold fire!

"A shortcut," he thought. He wanted to take that path, but felt in his heart that the result would not be the same. What result? Where was he going?

He was sure, at least, that he was just as close to the light as he was to the fire. He trudged on towards the light, resisting the temptation of the path.

He had bee thrashing through the forest for a long time. How Long? He had no way of telling, but he knew he hadn't much tome left to reach the light.

He came upon a large mound of black earth. It was a wall, and he sat down by it, weary.

He hoped he hadn't much further to go. He wasn't sure he could make it.

He got up again and climbed desperately up the mound. The earth was giving way underneath his feet. He held on with his arms. He was almost at the top of the mound.

His legs were giving way and he groveled with his hands to get over the ridge.

At last he reached the top, and there he stopped, gaping. Before him was a meadow, with a cool brook running through it. The grass was lush and green and there were tall trees with full foliage.

The sky was bright, and soft, familiar sounds filled his ears. He was the light, watching over him.

Familiar, smiling faces watched him, as one spoke:
"Welcome Norm: We knew you'd take the right path."

In the coldly-lit, sterile hospital room, a doctor spoke:
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Brathwell. We did all we could to keep him alive while he was in the coma. He was a good man. He always seemed to know the right path to take in life."

Glen MacPherson
AKA: Alvin Feeney