Man on a Mountain

F stared into the abyss beyond; arms held high, aloft to the universe and screamed at the sky. The aurora, dazzling golds and greens and blues streamed silently in the night above him and his cries were only answered with his own echo. Deep below, his scream reverberated around the glen and along the front of the lochan before turning to bellow right back at him. He railed against God, against Man, against his father, his teachers, his friends. Why had they not seen this anguish in him? And why had he not foreseen this misery that had engulfed him and his every thought?

Why hadn’t any of his companions at the university helped? Could they not have intervened, have stopped his descent into the complete madness of despair that he now found himself in. A man screaming towards the heavens, at the top of a mountain. The mountains of madness.

After a few moments, or more, of listening to his own screaming, F stopped and took in his surroundings. How he got here, he could not say. He was quite surprised. The meagre equipment he had on his person and his clothing were wholly unsuitable for night time mountain climbing at the start of winter. There was snow around the top. Had he met with an accident he wouldn’t have survived long.


Still he had managed the ascent, with only the moon and the shimmer of the night sky to light his way. He had been lucky, and was sane enough in these moments to realise this.

Yes, this was a spectacle. This was exceptional. The aurora borealis from a snowy mountain top with a near full moon out. He took a deep breath, a breath of clarity and surveyed the scene for a few more seconds. The cold of the air and the sweat on his body caught up with him. Feeling the chill for the first time, he turned. Finding his own footsteps, he returned.

Reuel Biafra

Currently listening to Bathory.