Mental Gymnastics: Fear of Falling

Choose Your Own Adventure!
Working on far too little sleep and not nearly enough coffee, I’m trying something new for this week’s MG. To a point, I got lazy – go finish my story for me.

He took a deep breath and told himself, very bravely, that there were others far more suited to this than he. Someone, anyone else in fact would surely be a better choice to complete this task.

He inched forward, felt the sudden absence of the ground under his left foot, and tried not to cry out as gravity took over and pitched his body forward. Then he was twisting, falling. It was a very long way down.


7 thoughts on “Mental Gymnastics: Fear of Falling

  1. The armor he wore did little to protect his body from the rocks and branches battering him as he tumbled. In fact, he suspected it contributed greatly to his present predicament. Blinded by dust swirling in his desperate but futile attempts to gain purchase on something, anything that would arrest his descent, he was now truly helpless.

  2. Mother always wanted me to be an apothecary, he mused. I rightly suppose that they wouldn’t find themselves in such inelegant states.

    A screeching filled his ears as the metal of his helm scraped across the flint of the cliff face. He fancied that he could smell smoke as well. He supposed that, if anyone had been informed enough to watch his ill-advised descent from below, they would be treated to quite the show, what with his armor sparking and the retinue of mountain that he seemed to have accumulated as he fell.

    The dragon was supposed to be here already. It should have seen him and swooped down. They had told him this was the trick. To appear as a helpless morsel. Maybe, unfortunately, it was smarter than any of them supposed. Maybe it was like the thrush, letting gravity and nature crack open that which it found difficult to crack on its own.

  3. He skidded to a stop in a cloud of dirt and dust, sprawled on his gut. Minutes or years could have passed, time stopped while he fell. He gasped in a breath, choked on the dirt clogging his nostrils, his mouth, and thanked the gods for the heavy mail plates that prevented the cliff from flaying him alive.

    That he still had skin did not mean he was without injury, though. The act of breathing confirmed it. Slowly, his breath held in his lungs, he pushed until he was on his back, ribs screaming with the effort. He blinked the dust from his eyes, attention grabbed by the beast watching him from mere yards away… head tilted, mouth open, tongue lolling.

  4. “You should really be more careful,” said the dragon who at a closer glance was wearing boller hat.

    “Aren’t you going to eat me?”

    “Come, now I’ve better things to do with my time, besides you’re filthy.”

  5. Reginald’s hands stopped scrambling at his back for his sword. He cocked his head much like the dragon had done a second earlier. The “beast” was a deep opalescent red, the color of his scales shifting slightly as he reared back on his haunches. Even more impossible than the hat, he was wearing a vest made from what appeared to be golden thread and a dark purple smoking jacket.


    The dragon’s yellow eyes flared wide, as big as platters, the pupils widening in excitement. “You LIKE it?! It was a gift to myself. Wonderful tailor over in Longbottom, you should see him, he does wonders. I retrieved it a week ago but no one had said anything. I was beginning to think that no one would *ever* notice.” His face fixed into a moue at this, a bit of grey smoke sneaking around the corners of his curled lip. “Not that I should be surprised, dreadful taste they have, those South County Wyrvens.”

  6. “What know you of Longbottom and South County Wyrvens?”

    The beast rolled a yellow eye at this and Reginald felt his cheeks heat.

    “Human, I daresay the question is better phrased, ‘What don’t you know of such people?’. ‘Tis far more easily answered, for I’ve been witness to the births and deaths of more kingdoms, empires, and chiefdoms than can be told before the sun rests.”

    Reginald watched as the beast turned his great head toward the sun, as if to measure the shine itself.

    The dragon whipped its head around to regard Reginald, still sprawled where he’d rather gracelessly landed, staring agape.

    “What?” The beast raised a talon, swiped at the purple fabric. “Have I marred it?”

    “No, no.” Reginald hastily assured him.

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