The Mountain Bridge
A precarious bridge. Stretched thin between two mountain peaks, shifting and churning with the howling winds. Only those who venture across the rickety rises, tumbling turns and steep steps can reach such a monument. A mere sustained rope bridge, which almost seems to whisper volumes of a history. The mountain bridge remains suspended above all, some whisper through hushed voices that once one crosses the bridge, a ruby is gifted as a reward. But recently, tales have been silenced.
A precarious bridge, does it take a life? Alone up there above the world, wouldn't it be lonely? The sun rises and falls all the same. Yet it remained hanging there, rattling and swaying with the howling winds. Some logs have fallen from its aged frame, and yet it remains there forever tied in between two monumental mountains. There's a rumour that a child wandered up there. Dragged by his parents on a hiking trip, with promises of fun, mystery and thrill. However, when raging winds swept through the wedged mountains, the family turned back. They believed stupidly that their son would follow, but he continued his hike. Up and up he went until he reached the snow-capped peak of the lower mountain and stared ahead.
The precarious bridge, did he cross it? Skipping over the hollowed wood, leaping on the rotting boards, running from the howling winds. He crossed the bridge and glanced back, staring at the shivering frame which braced for every gust. It was an old bridge, one of history and yet, it remained thriving, surviving in the valley of the howling. Cobwebs latched onto its rickety frame and swayed with the rope and wood. The boy seemed mesmerised by the bridge and stared back; he could’ve climbed higher, maybe stolen a ruby. Held the very thing that seemed to reflect blood and shimmer like the ocean, vast. But he stayed with the bridge. It was only once hour had passed and he stopped his game of hopscotch along the wooden planks that a storm rolled in. Dark and dangerous, it growled and grumbled, sending waves of wind, shaking the bridge. The bridge ascended and descended as the boy, left clutching to the frail ropes, was trapped in horror. He screamed and cried for any chance to be saved. Across the old frame, a strong voice called out. Guided by lantern light, the father stood there before rushing across the pass to reach his fearful son. Once he got to the child, the storm almost laughed at them, before a gust slammed into the wooden frame.
The boy and father went missing. The precarious bridge stood alone. Rumour says that those who cross the bridge but do not take some of the ruby remain on the bridge. Do they try to help the bridge? Or does it remain swaying in the wind's mockery, thrashed by the elements and bullied by the world. People stare at the bridge and question its meaning. But does a bridge need a meaning or can it just remain there. A bounding between two peaks, a binding between the real and the fake, the impossible and the possible, the supernatural and the natural.
The precarious bridge and boy remain there. Laughed at by the moon and sun, mocked by the wind, pushed by the storms and pelted by the hail. Yet it never falters. This precarious bridge holds strong, a pathway. Those who make it to the tip of one peak can cross its old frame and claim a small jewel as a prize, offering a challenging but also safe pass against the treacherous winds of the Kohaku Mountains. Weeding out those two lack the guts to pass it and those who are confident enough. The bridge instead may not stand as an obstacle but a guide. Just as the boy who now remains missing on the bridge.
But be careful, when the winds turn and a storm rolls in the bridge rattles and the voice of a young boy howls with it. Screaming to be saved, for anyone to help him as if the winds carry his voice forever. But when a storm passes the bridge silences as if melancholy seizes it and it remains still. Creaking, cracking and swaying in the winds.
The precarious Mountain bridge takes many lives. But the allure still remains in its old frame. Why is it there?
A precarious bridge. Stretched thin between two mountain peaks, shifting and churning with the howling winds. Only those who venture across the rickety rises, tumbling turns and steep steps can reach such a monument. A mere sustained rope bridge, which almost seems to whisper volumes of a history. The mountain bridge remains suspended above all, some whisper through hushed voices that once one crosses the bridge, a ruby is gifted as a reward. But recently, tales have been silenced.
A precarious bridge, does it take a life? Alone up there above the world, wouldn't it be lonely? The sun rises and falls all the same. Yet it remained hanging there, rattling and swaying with the howling winds. Some logs have fallen from its aged frame, and yet it remains there forever tied in between two monumental mountains. There's a rumour that a child wandered up there. Dragged by his parents on a hiking trip, with promises of fun, mystery and thrill. However, when raging winds swept through the wedged mountains, the family turned back. They believed stupidly that their son would follow, but he continued his hike. Up and up he went until he reached the snow-capped peak of the lower mountain and stared ahead.
The precarious bridge, did he cross it? Skipping over the hollowed wood, leaping on the rotting boards, running from the howling winds. He crossed the bridge and glanced back, staring at the shivering frame which braced for every gust. It was an old bridge, one of history and yet, it remained thriving, surviving in the valley of the howling. Cobwebs latched onto its rickety frame and swayed with the rope and wood. The boy seemed mesmerised by the bridge and stared back; he could’ve climbed higher, maybe stolen a ruby. Held the very thing that seemed to reflect blood and shimmer like the ocean, vast. But he stayed with the bridge. It was only once hour had passed and he stopped his game of hopscotch along the wooden planks that a storm rolled in. Dark and dangerous, it growled and grumbled, sending waves of wind, shaking the bridge. The bridge ascended and descended as the boy, left clutching to the frail ropes, was trapped in horror. He screamed and cried for any chance to be saved. Across the old frame, a strong voice called out. Guided by lantern light, the father stood there before rushing across the pass to reach his fearful son. Once he got to the child, the storm almost laughed at them, before a gust slammed into the wooden frame.
The boy and father went missing. The precarious bridge stood alone. Rumour says that those who cross the bridge but do not take some of the ruby remain on the bridge. Do they try to help the bridge? Or does it remain swaying in the wind's mockery, thrashed by the elements and bullied by the world. People stare at the bridge and question its meaning. But does a bridge need a meaning or can it just remain there. A bounding between two peaks, a binding between the real and the fake, the impossible and the possible, the supernatural and the natural.
The precarious bridge and boy remain there. Laughed at by the moon and sun, mocked by the wind, pushed by the storms and pelted by the hail. Yet it never falters. This precarious bridge holds strong, a pathway. Those who make it to the tip of one peak can cross its old frame and claim a small jewel as a prize, offering a challenging but also safe pass against the treacherous winds of the Kohaku Mountains. Weeding out those two lack the guts to pass it and those who are confident enough. The bridge instead may not stand as an obstacle but a guide. Just as the boy who now remains missing on the bridge.
But be careful, when the winds turn and a storm rolls in the bridge rattles and the voice of a young boy howls with it. Screaming to be saved, for anyone to help him as if the winds carry his voice forever. But when a storm passes the bridge silences as if melancholy seizes it and it remains still. Creaking, cracking and swaying in the winds.
The precarious Mountain bridge takes many lives. But the allure still remains in its old frame. Why is it there?
