{"id":1532,"date":"2019-10-09T01:03:24","date_gmt":"2019-10-09T01:03:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/?p=1532"},"modified":"2019-09-29T21:19:15","modified_gmt":"2019-09-29T21:19:15","slug":"i-see-it-by-caleb-hunter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/2019\/10\/09\/i-see-it-by-caleb-hunter\/","title":{"rendered":"I See It by Caleb Hunter"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Caleb Hunter lives in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains and has been writing off-and-on since he was 12. Although he has allowed the struggles of adulthood to keep him from the keyboard more often than he should\u2019ve, nothing soothes his soul more than taking a blank screen and filling it with characters. A disciple of Ray Bradbury, Neil Gaiman and Stephen King (just to name a few), you will usually find him reading\/writing speculative sci-fi, fantasy or horror. Recently, while sitting in the summer sun, Caleb typed out this piece of flash fiction. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n


I See It<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Barefoot, I step out onto the warm porch and look up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sky is a deep, unending\nblue. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Green trees wave and sway as I\nsit, still gazing upward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve never seen a sky this\nclear. Especially not in the middle of August. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The humidity usually masks the\natmosphere in a pale hue. Sometimes, I can\u2019t even tell where the clouds begin\nor end. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But not today. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today the clouds are stark\nwhite. Like puffy icebergs floating in the south pacific. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The weather app on my phone\nsays its 85, but it feels more like the low 70s. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As if the sun\u2019s rays are\ncooling as they pass through the deep-sea blue. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I breath in and am reminded of\nhiking in Colorado many years ago. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was summer then as well, yet\nthe Rocky Mountain air was cool and clean. So clean that it hurt to breath. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like my lungs were working\novertime, desperate for something to purify. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My lungs feel that way now.\nConfused, they heave so hard that I have to focus on slow inhales. Steady\nexhales. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a few seconds they calm\ndown, and I begin to relax.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bringing my eyes down, I see\nour outside cat casually twisting on his back. Letting the grass and dirt take\ncare of a stubborn itch.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He suddenly spins over onto all\nfours and freezes. Staring intently at something across the street. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Neighbors begin to appear on\nthe street. Scrambling out of yards and houses towards something at the end of\nthe cul-de-sac. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of them murmuring and pointing\nup. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stand to see what\u2019s going on,\nbut my view is blocked by the swaying trees that border our lot. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, I jog down the driveway. My\nfeet slapping against the pavement. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then, rounding the\nmailbox\u2026I see it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Way up in the massive oak\ntowering from Lorena Milford\u2019s backyard, stands Lorena herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her bare feet somehow gripping\nthe small branches jutting from the treetop. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looks like one of the stark\nwhite clouds as she stands against the vivid blue sky. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her nightgown stirring in the\nbreeze. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

No one calls up to her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Murmuring and gaping, they all\njust stand there. Mesmerized by this impossible balancing act.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Any second now, she\u2019ll lose her\ngrip and come splattering down on the hot asphalt. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This realization turns my\nstomach, so I sprint through the small crowd to the base of the tree.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLori\u2026now don\u2019t move, ok? I\u2019m\ncoming up\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you see it?\u201d she asks, in a\ndreamy tone that floats down like a feather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSee what Lori?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She weaves back and forth as\nthe wind kicks up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShit.\u201d I whisper hoarsely. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rolling up my jeans, I back up\nand take a running leap to the lowest branch. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bark shifts and crumbles as I\ntighten my grip and pull myself up into the green leaves. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you see it?\u201d She asks\nagain, still in that dreamy tone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see the ground leaving is\nwhat I see.\u201d I pant out the words. My chest tightening with fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I reach up to the next limb,\nthen the next.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My feet tingle as I try not to\nlook down. I never liked climbing trees. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not as a boy, and certainly not\nas a 30-year-old man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Strangely enough, the higher I\ngo, the easier the climb seems to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As if I were getting lighter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I feel the tree trunk narrowing\nand bending slightly as I finally reach her feet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlright now\u2026nice and easy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you see it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLori, that limb is barely\nthick enough for a squirrel, let alone two grown-ass people. Come on\u2026take my\nhand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without looking down, she grabs\nmy trembling arm and pulls me up onto the dangerously small limb. As if I\nweighed nothing at all. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The limb bounces only for a\nmoment, then steadies as if held up by some strange force. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Holding my hand, she raises it\nand points ahead.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you see it?\u201d She asks. Her\nvoice now distant and faint.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I squint into the darkening\nblue void.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy God Lori\u2026I see it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I recently read about\nVantablack. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Scientists made it in a lab and\nclaim that it absorbs 99.96% of light. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They claim it\u2019s the deepest\nblack known to humankind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They claim it\u2019s the closest\nhuman eyes will ever get to gazing into a black hole. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They were wrong. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

God help us\u2026they were wrong.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Caleb Hunter lives in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains and has been writing off-and-on since he was 12. Although he has allowed the struggles of adulthood to keep him from the keyboard more often than he should\u2019ve, nothing soothes his soul more than taking a blank screen and filling it with characters. A disciple … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1532","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-oI","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1532","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1532"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1532\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1535,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1532\/revisions\/1535"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1532"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1532"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1532"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}