Tower

The bridge was centuries old, stones lining it, imperfect synchronicity. The river had not faded or aged in many years. Water trickled sometimes, sometimes roaring as it gushed from north to south, the sun rising and setting with hues of red, orange, and yellow every day as it had for centuries. The air tasted of poppies and crimsons, and something salty. The grass on the east side was soft under the feet.

On the west side was a lone tower, nothing around it for miles. Empty. It stood foreboding, tall, lonesome, lonely. Once you crossed the bridge, everything felt different, the salt smell was stronger, the flowers smelled weaker. The water still trickled, but it sounded muted, as if there was a glass wall between you and it. As if it were covered by a dome. Or maybe you were. An ominous sound buzzed in your ears. Or maybe that was the wind. It would be, if it weren't for the goosebumps crawling, slowly, licking their lips, up your spine.

The tower still stood tall, nothing changed. But once you were over the bridge, on its side, it seemed to call to you. Your mind seemed frozen, crawling in a corner in your head, not giving instructions. The commands to put one foot in front of the other, walk slowly, purposefully forward came from elsewhere. Your mind was frozen in cinder blocks. A mystery. You stood in front of the tower, the ominous buzzing louder, and louder. It felt magnificent, felt as man-made as the circle of stone monoliths in london did, or tombs in egypt. It felt alien. The smell of salt was stronger. The color crimson flashing before your eyes. Your eyes showing you the world through lenses in different shades of red. The ground was rough, and soft. You would scratch yourself on it, and bleed, you would sink in it, as if it were quicksand. The die had rolled, casting fives, and those fives were floating in front of you. You were drawn to the tower by a magnetism that befuddled you, the very question of it fading.

A fish flapped helplessly far from the stream, in an open clearing, gasping, flapping.

An airplane passing overhead hummed, loud, shrieking, warning.

You touch the stone walls, cool, inviting, sexual, gleaming, primal. Your mind becomes dizzy, you spin and spin, and spin, falling to the ground. When you come to, you are in different times, in different ages. The sun is shining, it is night. It is hot, you are in the Ice Age. You see barren land, you see the flowers being planted. You see when this was all underwater, you see when the earth soaked up the water. Throughout it all, the one thing that was constant was the tower. Through these many ages. Invaders would come, drawn by the sheer magnetism of the structure, would come in their chariots, on their horses, storming in, trampling and destroying everything in their wake. They would all be repelled. Three figures, in cloaks, it was always three, they were always in cloaks, three figures would hold bows, and shoot arrows faster than the eyes could see. You would not see them pull the strings or draw the next ones, you would see arrows sticking out of the chests of the humans, the eyes of the brutes.