Stoned
Benjamin Forsberg
papabearbjf@hotmail.com

The iridescent haze wafted in circular motions before, behind, and all around him. It teased him. It was saying I can move and you can't, nya nya nya na na na. He tried to scowl at it, frown at it, do something to tell it to stick it where it hurt. It ignored him, swirling around the trees, inching forward, crawling little by little over the stoned tree creatures, threatening as it closed in to…

To what? What could it do to him? He was turned to stone, damned voluntarily to suffer immobile without a means of communication, and without anyone to even communicate with. He had thrown the map without thinking, the under-riding force of good that frequently bit and stung at him forcing him to act heroically when he least desired. There was a part of him that was satisfied, but the bigger part of him was continually musing on the fact that he hadn't realized consciousness would continue. Now he was a statue, hoping the gang would find him, find a cure, but ultimately resigned to the idea that this was it. He would be a statue forever.

It was irritating, looking in the same direction, unable to turn his consciousness, his eternal perspective limited to what lay before him now. It would be a long, slow progression of time, and would probably drive him insane. He would have smiled if he could have. It was a suitable end to a fast-lived life. But life didn't end, did it? He would have sighed, lowered his head and cried, if he could have.

It was that stupid monkey-boy and his stupid charismatic way of looking life in the eye without fear. Then spitting in it.

The feeling that triggered laughter filled him, with no way to escape.