Armani Claudius tread- milled through the woods; the forty five degree incline protested his climb and gave his calf muscles an inkling of their worth. At this point he could not remember the reason for his escape. His memory blotted out by the sun like a bad hangover. Any attempt to remember retaliated with needles to the head, a pinching reminder that memory did not want to be discovered. Whether if he was being pursued by someone or something, or tracking someone or something, he did not know. The horizon, however, warranted a clue. Despite the endless recession of trees ahead, the sunlight was able to only needle through certain parts of the forestry area. Remnants of the horizon had been blotted out as if by an ink pen. His eyes chased into the darkness further and further until what remained left of any five o’ clock sunset had been shattered and dispersed like Christmas twinkles.

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The darkness allured him like a magnet, yet what may have been behind him was as equally terrifying. Beside him the trees seemed to sway to and fro, silhouetted in a phony black and white outline as if they had been carelessly penciled in by an unseen artist. The turf beneath became plushy and pliable, yet resilient to any inertia his legs could bear. Armani felt confided in a pressure tank; north and south fused at both ends, either path beckoned to say that the end of the road was nigh. The sounds of crumpling paper could be heard as the forest seemed to engulf itself.

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The unseen artist, without remorse yet a strong sense of dejection, injudiciously tossed the ill fortuned Armani into the wastebasket; unknowingly so, the unseen artist had just trashed a Nobel Prize of a work into the dumps.

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