"The Anatomy of a Screaming Mountain" - An Old Piece of Flash Fiction

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The rumble woke us from a starlit sleep. Father used to say the thunder was from an angered God, but this was from the mountain itself. A mountain so large, it blocked the sun for most of the day and created a valley seeped in frost during the warm seasons. My brother and I scampered out of bed and became one with the confusion spreading through the village. The ground vibrated beneath us as if to warn of something bigger and we screamed our father’s name over the din of wailing mothers and cranky infants. Even the moon had retreated behind the clouds, unsure of how far the mountain’s wrath could reach.

I could see the vegetation shaking on the side of the mountain. Leaves fell and tiny movements seemed to drip like black tears along the face of its rocky visage; the shadows of animal families scrambling for cover from the fury. My brother and I, our footing unsure, ran through the village looking for our father. No answer came from the other adults around as they were preoccupied with corralling their own children into some façade of safety. He should have been back from fishing by now, but an afternoon return wasn’t out of the ordinary either.

The ground shook again, this time more violently. The house closest to the mountain trembled at its foundation and crumbled into unusable materials as the wood cracked loudly and splintered across the length of the walls pancaking the makeshift home. My brother grabbed at the bottom of my shirt and I pulled him close. The next house started to shake in the same manner as I grabbed my brother, running towards the beach. “What about papa?” I could hear him scream from behind me, over and over. I clenched my jaw and ran as hard as the sand would let me. My panicked footfalls kicking up sand, picking up pieces of calcified sea creatures and kelp in my sandals as I threw my brother into the closest canoe.

His crying had left silver streaks of moonlight along his cheeks as he stared at the mountain. I felt the beach rumble again, feeling it shake through my legs as I pushed the canoe out into the salty black water. The water was warm, even at this time of night, and its embryonic embrace felt more solid than the home we were leaving.

“What about papa?” he asked. I didn’t know.

“Did we do something wrong?” he asked. I had no answer and shrugged in the darkness as the mountain cracked and oozed its inner fire down the slopes, molting from the inside out.