The Last Ridge
#2 of Conbook Submissions
This is one of the first stories I've ever actually "finished." I was under tight deadline to submit to the RMFC '12 conbook, and by tight I mean I submitted it minutes to midnight.
Through some twist of fate it actually did get into the book, which I was astonishingly proud of. I touched it up since then, although it is by NO means perfect. I'd like to continue to go over it, but I suppose we have to call everything finished at some point. Might as well include the first story ever in that list as well. The theme was the "Furry Apocalypse," and it was plenty fun to write. Since then I've been featured in two other convention books - it's my small claim to fame :D
... and yes, I am making my first upload four years after the creation of my account. And if that's not called being on top of your game then I don't know what it. ;>_>
The Last Ridge By Finn Panther
The cataclysm had not been kind to this stretch of land. The valley was lined with mountains that had collided as the earth split apart, land upheaving and causing deep gouges - while other parts of the valley had crashed together, causing impromptu cliffs and ridges. An already wind swept valley had become especially treacherous as powerful breezes carried away the loose dirt, leaving stone and only the sharpest bits of earth.
Traveling through particularly rough winds - rough even for this valley - a lone wanderer shielded his eyes with a forearm. Flying dirt buried itself deep in his already dusty, dingy coat as the wind splayed his black fur. As one arm shielded his eyes the other desperately clutched onto his tail, stopping it from flailing painfully in the fierce winds.
The wolf lifted another paw, stumbling against the wind and always ignoring the sharp jabs of upturned rocks and stones. With a fevered determination he continued past aching, bleeding paws, and a soreness he could feel to his bones. He could remember the journey that brought him here - deserts and destroyed towns and years of isolation. But he had never seen entire mountainsides thrown to valley floors. This utter destruction was new to him, and as the wind caught his jacket and dragged him a step backward, he considered turning heel.
Angrily, the wolf tore his jacket out of the wind's pull and took another step. Ignoring the ache in his bones and the stiffness in his fur, and ignoring the desire to go back, he took another step - because this, he knew, was the last ridge.
After numbing years of wandering, years of nothing but destruction and lifelessness, he knew this was the final stretch. That little cliff, hardly visible through the flying dust? That was the last one - that was his goal. And on the other side of that ridge, he reminded himself, was everything. There would be fresh water, for starters. Fresh water, and... and cubs, playing in it. Entire families, in fact. They'd be having a barbecue - you could smell the sausages! - and dear God, that pasture was green! Green, and bright, and soft. Hell, the grass was so soft that it made you cry.
The wolf was pulled out of his happy vision as he misplaced a foot, spurred by the unforigivng wind. Falling forward, the wolf loosed his tail and caught himself on a particularly rough, upturned stone. Bracing himself against the sharp jab into his paw, and for just a moment forgetting the pain of his tail lashing helplessly in the wind, the wolf again placed one paw in front of the other, followed by another - and another. He had brought his arm away from his face, and his muzzle consequently stung (like the rest of him) - but he would keep moving on. Squinting against the dusty wind, he could just barely make out the top of the ridge. So close.
Scrambling on all fours, desperately working towards his dream, the wolf recalled the green meadow. Just on the other side of this ridge. He reminded himself of the happy band of survivors - just after this ridge. The warm comfort of company, the warm fire with sausages - there must be sausages! - and his tired paws resting on warm, soothing grass. Just on the other side of this ridge.
With one final surge of strength the wolf topped the rise, placing a paw on that jagged line where earth had collided with earth, and vaulted himself to the other side. A sharp drop off, a little bit of rolling - and now, shielded from the wind, his tail no longer flailing painfully, his fur no longer splayed in every direction, and with the greatest sigh of accomplishment - the wolf took in his surroundings.
More dirt. More rocks. And, in front of him, another ridge. Just like the last ridge. And just like the ridge before that. Sucking on his wounded paw, the wolf chuckled and chided himself. He must have envisioned it wrong. His oasis must be after this next ridge.
Reminding himself of his green pasture, he continued. Forever traveling to his imagined stronghold of survivors. Forever placing paw before paw, forever searching for peace of mind. And above all, forever searching for that green, grassy plain.
Just one last ridge.