The Pit of Perdition
                                                                                
Yesterday, was a day just like so many before and countless more yet to come.  One day this place will have a name.  So far it is terra incognito and has no name.  The drying winds blow across the land bringing to brief life the dust devils of this arid land.  In ages past, this was near the shore of an inland sea, and it will be some day again.  Also, some day it will be a desert.  In this age though, appears to be an oasis of life, but that appearance is a deception.  For those who seek life here will only meet their own perdition.
                                
The evening before there was a small shower leaving behind its glistening life giving waters tantalizing rippling and glistening in the light breeze and early and sparkling sunlight, of this perfect morning.  A flight of migratory water fowl passes near.  It has been days since they had found fresh water.  Sighting the deep inviting pool of fresh water.  In it they land for an refreshing drink and bath.  All too soon and far too late they realize their folly.  Only by luck are some of them able to fly away.  As for the rest of these descendants of the great saurons who one ruled this land, their doom is sealed.  The deep wonderful life giving waters was an illusion, the water is nothing more than a thin film resting on a deep pool a sticky clinging black muck.  They are as affixed to is as a fly on flypaper.  Their desperate cries and the sounds of their struggle are carried on the headless wind.
                                                                                
A hunting party of a family of canines who will one day be remembered as the gigantic dire wolves is returning to their den after a fruitless night's hunt.  They and their young will have to go hungry for another day.  Suddenly they hear the pitiful struggles of the hapless avians.  No hungry wolf could let such an opportunity go unexploited.  The party descend on the helpless birds and soon realize that they too are helpless and they become affixed to the strange substance that lies beneath these almost evaporated water.  They also now cry for help, but there is nobody hear or care.
                                                                                
There are though scavengers to exploit their misfortune.  The vultures land to feast on the dead and dying.  Their grisly feat is brief and they discover that they too are to be permanent inmates of perdition. As they struggle predator and prey and scavenger alike, they are ever more coated in the sticky substance becoming more solidly connected to this horrid place. As the slowly sink into its dark cold maw.  With the setting sun the last trace of the victim had long ago disappeared into the bottomless depths coming to rest on the decomposing carcases of previous victims.  Will the night bring another shower?
                                                                                
That was yesterday, last night there was no shower to create the illusion to tempt the thirsty.  Instead the night breeze had brought with it a dusting of soil and grasses.  The initial bait is different, but the effect will be the same.  This time, it will begin by an grazer desiring the grasses, perhaps a camel or a bison.  Or perhaps another some other beast will attempt to walk across the seemingly solid land.  Perhaps none will come by today, but on the next day or the day after that some creature will come and be trapped, starting the whole horrid chain of events once again.  The details may change, they matters not.  What does matter is that the trap is once again set and the endless hunger will be fed.
                                                                                
Some day in the future the race of man will find this place, tame this land and give it a name.  They will barricade it for safety and explore its depths.  Many will come and make sport of the death and misery that this place has cause for thousands and millions of year.  They will be headless of pain and terror felt by those interred here. They will sport of death and suffering.  Some day in the race of man will find this place and give it the name [i:c1389fe01f]La Brae[/i:c1389fe01f].
                                                                                
Pangor (c) 2005.

Only to let you know that I'll read the story in the weekend, with relax and a hot vup of tea   !

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Perhaps I should provide a little background to what lead to my writing this story.  I had read a library book about prehistoic America, there was a chapter that spoke about the La Brae tar pit and how valuable it was for understanding the kinds of animals had once inhabited the areas of the tar pit.  No mention was made of the terror and suffering that was experienced to build up that huge cache of remains that were so valuable to those studying the pit and its contents.

Latter I viewed a film strip in which the place was shown, and of the childern having fun visiting there.  Latter again we were shown an educational movie that detailed some of the same information again, this time it was clear that sport was being made of the plight of those we where burried there.  Many of the students in our class also started making jokes on the subject.  I understand how important the find in the pit are, but, at the time it seemed that I was the only one who felt bad for the suffering and death that once took place there.

Then in english class we were given a writing assignment for which we were to write a short story on a subject of our choice based on a theme assigned to us by the teacher.  The original version of this story was the result.

The day after the final day to submit that project, the teacher had already graded it chose to read it to the class.  Soon after he started reading it, the students became bored one of the students grabbed it out of the teacher's hand.  That student and a few others started to play "keep away" so the teacher did not recover the paper.  In the process, the paper was torn into many pieces.  After the class was over there were fragments all over the floor, I was able to recover only a small portion of the original paper.  Most important was the fragment that contined the grade that he assigned to it, but that part I did not find.  The teacher informed me that without the written grade in hand, the rules did not permit him to record it in his grade book and without the complete paper in hand he could not reassign it a grade.

That night, I reassembled the fragments like jib saw puzzle with most of the parts missing.  So I rewrote the story, copying that parts that were original and filling the rest in from memory or recreating it when my memory failed.  The next day I tried to turn it in, but I was told that I needed to indentify the original parts of the story and which parts were written anew or from memory.  He kept the copy that I had just offered him and would not return it.  That meant that I had to rewrite it again that night the same as I did the previous night, this time using two different colors of ink to identify which text was which.  The next day I turned in the rewritten copy, he accepted it.

Latter that day, I had another class in the same classroom.  When entering the classroom, I noticed my multicolored ink paper in the trash can next that was next to the door.  I tried to recover it, but found only the top quarter of the sheet of paper.  I assumed that it was somehow been lost by the teacher, I wrote it again and turned it in again on the next school day.  That is when I discovered as a fact what I had suspected.  The teacher informed me that he had discarded the paper and was never planning to permit me to resubmit the paper.  The reason he had me rewrite it so many times was that wanted to punish me because by his reasoning, the fracus on the day he read the story was my fault.  Why was it my fault?  Because I wrote a story that he felt was worty of being read to the class.  Rather than the "A" that informed me that I had earned, I was given the final score of "F" for failing to turn in the assignment.

The other day, I was going through some old papers and was suprised to find in an envelope the fragments of that paper.  So, I thought that I would rewrite it just one more time.

Pangor

( Tormie worked in his garden in the weekend so he hasn't red the story       , but now he's faking illness all the week   so he'll have enough time! )

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