Check out the update to The Eyes of God:
I lose sight of him, his silhouette shrinking into the sun. Sitting in silence, I watch a contingent of beetles approaching my leg. “The Mountain,” I mumble to myself, not noticing the six legs crawling over my ankle. Leaping to my feet, I kick off the tiny, black insect, its bite still stinging. My fresh blood drips into the dry riverbed as the swarm of blind bugs all forsake their corpse-home, and in one mass, like a passing shadow, race towards me.
Between the two walls of the canyon, a large boulder, for untold decades smoothed in the dark deep of the rushing river, the river now dried, replaced by hot biting wind and lifeless dust, this boulder stands a monument to that greatness past. The undercurrents, those hidden courses, left their marks, their engravings in this stone, a history only revealed in this absence of life, this end. Erratic patterns, irregular grooves, chiseled by patient continual flow, suffice an escape from this blood thirsty mass, my hands finding in them holds with which to climb.
Like a spider I crawl up this sacred stone, my sallow and depleted body, thinned by the disease, a small burden to carry. Over the top of my sanctuary I spy where I’ve bled, tarrying packs of my pursuers marking my spilt life as they surround and consume.
Slipping, I waver at the platform’s lip, sometimes falling forward and sometimes back. Inside my guts dissolve in fear, and like a liquid unsurely toss between despair and hope. Collapsing unto my hind end, I fall back unto the rock. Under my feet I see the glistening red of my slick blood, and the drops from my still bleeding ankle. Tearing a ribbon of cloth from my shirt, I bind the flow in tight knots.