Shangri-la?

Prompt: Shangri-la


The Himalayans were a torturous environment; cliffs as sheer the edge of a blade, peaks like jagged fangs, and cold that can kill. Gregory Kline led his team fearlessly through that foreboding landscape, intent on pushing through. To setting foot in places where no man has walked before.

And he was sure they would succeed. They were six hundred miles from the nearest civilization and had been re-supplied by helicopter twice already, and every member of the team was still in excellent condition. No signs of frostbite or hypothermia, no accidents. Kline grinned under his thick scarf.

Which is exactly when the ice underneath him cracked with a sound like thunder. The world tilted violently sideways and the expedition leader stumbled and fell. Ropes napped tight as Kline’s weight pulled against the ice climbers he was tethered to. Ice shivered apart and one by one they slide into the crevasse in a line, boots kicking for purchase on the smooth ice, flailing with ice picks.

It was Oscar who saved their lives. Someone had lost hold of their ice pick, sliding adown the slope alongside them. Oscar managed to grab it as it slid past him and raise it alongside his own pick. With a cry he brought them both down and felt them bite. The tethered line of sliding men and women came to a halt with a jarring snap. One at a time they each found purchase of their own, taking the strain off of Oscar.

Kline dangled at the bottom of the slope, hanging over what would have been a fatal drop. He looked up, heard Oscar shouting for the team to spread themselves out and tie themselves off. For an Arizona native, the man was surprisingly natural on the ice.

Kline looked down, knowing that he would have to wait for the others to secure themselves before they could pull him to safety. As he dangled, rotating slowly on the ropes that tethered him to his team, Kline marveled at the ice. So much more beautiful than a simple ice cube, the ice sparkled in blue, indigo and violet. He smiled at a rare flash of deep green in the ice, then his breath caught.

A glassy boulder of ice reflected green-gold light up at him, colors he had never before seen in all his years mountain climbing. Kline blinked his eyes rapidly. Maybe he was going snow-blind…maybe it was fatigue…but it almost looked like a reflection in the ice. A reflection of a green valley.

“There’s something down here!” He shouted.

“What is it?” He heard Oscar shout back, his voice ricocheting off of the chasm walls like a pinball. Kline smiled briefly. It had been a long time since his first days on the mountain, shouting from the peaks to hear his own voice. But because he didn’t engage in those amateur jokes any longer, didn’t mean he still couldn’t be amused by them.

His smile faded as he stared at the reflection below him. This was either an amazing discovery, or he was hallucinating. “I’m not sure! I want to climb down and get a better look!”

Oscar organized the team and they got Kline hauled up onto the slope so they could begin an organized descent. It took four hours to climb back up the slope to where the ice had first shattered and collect gear that had been left behind and then to climb back down and make the final descent to the bottom of the chasm.

Kline was almost certain that as soon as they reached bottom that there would be nothing to see. Nothing more than a trick of the light played on senses scrambled by fear and adrenalin from his near-death. Under the ledge where he’d dangled, the late afternoon light had passed the point where it could shine to the bottom. But there was light…

The eastern end of the crevasse was pinched shut by the slow movement of the eons, but the western end was open; a tall but narrow shaft winding away. Light like fire was tingeing the icy walls with warmer colors.

“Do you see that, Greg?” Oscar said quietly, stepping up besides Kline. He nodded. “Good, I thought maybe I was going nuts. This is what you saw, too, right?”

They chuckled together. “Well, we could still both be nuts. Let’s check it out while we still have light,” Kline said.

They moved on in silence, intrigued by the beautiful light spilling into the chasm. When they stepped out of the opening, they had to raise their hands to cover their eyes. The late sunlight poured into a vast valley, glinting off the ice on western rim. Below them lay a green and lush valley, a sparkling lake in the center.

When the powers of speech returned, Hamilton breathed, “I saw this valley from up top...there was nothing but ice and snow…”

“Look!” Said Oscar. “Houses! …Tended fields…and those trees. They were planted! It’s a God-damned orchard…”

Kline unzipped his parka and pulled his frozen gloves off his hands with his teeth; it was much warmer in the valley. “Well, everyone, lets go check it out… It’s like…. It’s like, Shangri-la…”

There was even a path from the crevice winding down the slopes of the valley, switching back over hills covered in grass and clover. No one spoke as they made their way to the valley floor. Something about this valley seemed, odd, special, maybe sacred.

“Holy shit, a welcoming committee,” Oscar said. Near the bottom of the hill a group of people were waiting. Their dress and manner instantly brought the word ‘peasants’ to mind. They wore simple, homespun clothes, worn, but well-cared for. Their faces were round and sun-darkened, creased at the eyes and around the mouths with deep lines. They bowed deeply as Kline and his team neared them.

Kline looked over his shoulder at the expedition, shrugged, then turned towards the peasants and bowed in return. Behind him, Oscar and the others mimicked. The valley-folk straightened, smiling and came forward, babbling quickly in a language Kline had never heard before. Grasping arms and wrists they coaxed the team forward and into their village.

“Abe? You still have the camera, right?” Kline asked. Behind him, gently nudged along by several of the peasants, the young man patted the bulging pocket of his pack.

“If it didn’t get broken in the fall, yeah. Do you think it’ll spook the natives?”

Oscar chuckled. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to make them think we were stealing their souls, now.”

Kline was torn between frowning and laughing along. “Good point. Be discrete; get a few pictures when you think you can do it without anyone noticing. At the very least we’ll get some shots from the edge of the valley when we leave.”

“If the camera’s not busted…” Abe muttered.

They were taken to a long low building, like a lodge. The peasants pulled at their clothes, and after some initial resistance, Kline realized they were only trying to remove their bulky cold-weather clothes. They weren’t really necessary any more, so he relented and encouraged his team to do likewise. He was no diplomat, but his mother and law always seemed to take offense if he did not offer to take her coat when she came to visit. He grinned at the idea of treating this whole village like his mother in law, but considering how carefully he tread around that woman, it couldn’t hurt.

They were treated to a feast by the village people, presided over by an elder so ancient and withered that Kline couldn’t be sure if they were man or woman. The food was excellent and copious, but not exotic, at least not to the area. They ate the same sort of fare Kline found in the Himalayan communities all around the mountain. He was vaguely disappointed; he’d almost been expecting roast yeti.

Kline could see his team trying to mingle, introducing themselves in loud and over-enunciated English. Oscar was perhaps having the most success communicating, employing grand hand gestures and not a few sound effects. Kline choked on his water when he saw Oscar wind milling his arms, crying out as he played out an exaggerated version of their fall this morning. A smiling old woman thumped him the back, murmuring in her incomprehensible language until he could breathe again. He thanked her with tone of voice and expression, knowing that it would be a long time before his words meant anything to his people. Probably not until National Geographic got here.

The lodge was turned into sleeping quarters, with thick blankets laid out on the floor for each of them and the fire pits stoked for the night. Smiling and bowing, the villagers backed their way out and left them alone. Kline lay back on a blanket, pulling another over his legs and feeling the pleasant drowsiness of a good meal. And satisfaction at his discovery. He hadn’t discovered a place where no man had set before, but he thought that these people and their amazing valley high above the earth might be even better.

Kline was woken by nature’s call. At first, he couldn’t make sense of his surroundings. Not that he had forgotten where he was – on the contrary, he’d been dreaming that he was receiving a noble prize (he wasn’t sure if they gave them out for this, but he hoped) for his discovery here – but that his surroundings looked nothing like the lodge he’d fallen asleep in. It was misty and hot, damp. Kline groaned, his skin itched to the point of burning.

But only for a moment. He blinked away the sleep and saw the carved beams laid out above him and his team laid out below them. Sleep seemed distant, so he resolved to take Abe’s camera and get some snapshots after doing his business. He paused as he crept over to Abe’s sleeping form, suddenly realizing that he had no idea where these people went to go pee, and hoped he didn’t cause an incident with his ignorance. He hoped that he could find someplace to relieve himself that they wouldn’t find until he could figure out a way to politely use hand-signs to ask where the bathroom was.

The camera was right next to Abe. He must have taken it out during the feat, maybe he’d even gotten some photos unnoticed during the commotion. He grabbed the camera, but the strap was looped around Abe’s hand. Kline gently lifted it and slipped the camera off, but he felt something slick and warm. He held his fingers up and in the dim light of the fire pit’s embers, he saw a dark stain. He smelled it and took in the metallic scent of warm blood.

“…Abe…?” He jerked the blanket back and felt his gorge rise. The young man’s skin was mostly eaten away, dissolved as if by acid.

“Ungh… what’s up, boss?” Abe blinked sleepily, obviously unaware of his condition. How could he not feel it? Kline turned away, certain he was going to vomit. He braced his hands on the floor and the burning itch suddenly returned. With a scream, he saw that his own hands were almost fleshless, eaten away nearly to the bone.


Screams echoed off the sides of the valley, but it was far too remote for them to be heard by even bestial ears. The village in the valley faded away as the creature closed its illusory mouth. Perhaps in another few decades some beast would wander this way again, and the creature would unfold its trap and let its meal walk right in.

Jam Tomorrow

Prompt: The day that never comes


The last thing that Lance Corporal Jarrod Timberlake said to his bunkmates before collapsing onto his bunk was “I’m not getting up until tomorrow.” The Iraqi heat and pure exhaustion had not allowed for any other conversation.

When he woke up it was accompanied by a great deal of dizziness, like some of the hangovers he had had not long after arriving in the Middle East. After pulling early patrol the night after another wild bender, Timberlake had sworn off drinking. Well…sworn off getting drunk. Well…getting really drunk at least.

“Come on, Timberlake, get up.”

The words were quiet and amused rather than the booming and painful sound he expected given the hung over feeling. But he was not hung over. He had not been drinking last night at all. He’d had a late patrol, so it hadn’t been an option.

The owner of the quiet and amused voice, Private Dillon, helped Timberlake to his feet. He mumbled a thanks to the burly private and was grateful for once at the routine drilled into him during boot camp. He showered, shaved and dressed automatically, which was good because everything looked just a little blurry still.

But the numbers on his watch were clear enough.

“Dillon? Why the hell did you get me up at five am?”

Dillon smiled, “Because you have an early patrol. You didn’t look like you were getting up on your own…” he shrugged and went back to polishing his boots.

“I had late patrol last night, they don’t schedule you for an early one the next day. Not even the United States Army is that cruel.” Timberlake wandered over to the schedule tacked to the wall by the door and felt his mouth droop open. He was clearly marked for an early patrol.

“You had a late patrol the night before last, not yesterday,” the ever-helpful Dillon replied. “Says right there, ‘September 5th: Timberlake, Jarrod. Patrol – zero six hundred.’”

“It’s the 4th,” Timberlake corrected absently. He still felt a little out of it, and his vision was still blurry like when you opened your eyes underwater. He was able to focus on his watch after a moment and saw that he was wrong again. Something was wrong… did he have a heat stroke?

Timberlake thought about asking to see the base doc, but decided to wait on it. It was not long before six in the morning now, and he didn’t exactly expect to wake feeling alert and happy. It would pass. He hoped.

Timberlake, Dillon and two other privates, Arnolds and Henriquez, climbed into a hummvee, checked their patrol route, and rumbled into the Iraqi dawn. Timberlake opted for the back seat, leaning his helmeted head against the vibrating glass of the window. The rising sun turned the vehicle into an oven, but did nothing for his head, except change his metaphor for his blurred vision from being underwater to seeing the whole world through a heat shimmer.

Dillon had decided to ride up top, leaning on the machinegun, and Arnolds and Henriquez where in the front, chatting amiably about the poker game from yesterday afternoon. Timberlake ignored them until he felt a tingling on his wrist. He rubbed at his wrist, expecting to shoo off some biting fly (the desert had its own nasty bugs, he’d been sorry to find out), but felt nothing. It took a moment longer for him to realize that he had not even felt the band of his watch. He looked down, confused, and saw that circling his wrist was a blurred line.

It had the shape and the color of his watch, but as he watched, it grew more and more indistinct, and then he was simply staring at his naked wrist. “What the hell…?”

Henriquez turned in the front passenger seat, bracing his hand on the headrest of the driver’s seat. “What’s up?”

Timberlake opened his mouth, but he wasn’t sure what he could say. He wasn’t sure he believed what he’d just seen himself, let alone convince others it had happened as well. But his eyes caught on Henriquez’s wrist, circled by a darkening blurry line.

“That’s my watch…” Timberlake said. “How the fuck did you get my watch, Henry?”

The private flinched, pulling his hand away as if the other soldier was going to lunge for it. “Hey, if you loved the watch so much, you should quit the game when you ran out of money.” He frowned. Normally Timberlake and Henriquez got along just fine. “…you can play for it again tonight if you want to win it back.”

Timberlake, shook his head, more to shake off this persistent wrong feeling than to respond. “No…it’s okay…Sorry, Henry. I’m just out of it today.”

“Sure, no problem…You want the radio on?”

“No, I’m cool. Thanks…” Timberlake shook his head more slowly this time. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The others nodded while Timberlake clambered up from the cab to the back of the hummvee, to sit with Dillon. He found a relatively comfortable place to perch and clutched his rifle to his chest like a life-preserver. “Strange question for you, Dillon: What day is it?” Thursday, September fourth, two-thousand and eight.

“It’s Friday, man! And you and I, lucky fucks that we are, get this weekend off!” Dillon leaned casually on the machinegun, a cigarette clenched between his lips. That’s why he liked to ride up top.

“Okay, Dillon, this is going to sound fucked up, but it doesn’t feel like today. Like, yesterday was the third, and today should be the fourth, but it’s not. It’s tomorrow.” Timberlake wrung his hands around the barrel of his rifle. He knew he sounded crazy, but hell, he felt crazy right now. But Dillon had gone through boot with him, if anyone could understand, it would be the big Texan.

Dillon frowned, but that was just his thinking face. At least he was taking this seriously. “So, like, you don’t remember yesterday?”

“I remember yesterday, but yesterday was Wednesday, not Thursday. Today, should be Thursday and tomorrow is Friday.”

“But today is Friday,” Dillon drawled.

“That’s what I’m saying: this is tomorrow, not today,” Timberlake sighed. This was crazy, but rather than sounding ridiculous once spoken, like the night fears of children when looked at in the light of day, the idea grew in strength.

“I dunno, Jarrod… I remember yesterday and it was the fourth.” He crouched on the back of the hummer and pushed his helmet back, frowning even more deeply, trying to make this make sense for his friend’s sake.

“Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today…” Timberlake muttered.

“What’s that?”

Timberlake spoke up over the road noise. “Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today. It’s something from Alice in Wonderland or something. Like, if you’re going to have jam tomorrow you don’t, because when it’s tomorrow, it’s not tomorrow anymore, it’s today. Get it?”

“Man, I never got Alice in Wonderland,” Dillon shook his head.

Timberlake was determined to lay it out for his friend, to make it make sense so he at least wouldn’t be alone in this crazy idea, but he didn’t say anything. Dillon was getting blurry. Everything was blurry, just a little bit, but Dillon was getting really blurry. Like the watch.

“Mike!?”

Timberlake grabbed at the burly private, but he even felt blurry and indistinct. The blurred shape lost definition and color until it was a shapeless blob. Then it began to clear. Color and form returned, but Dillon didn’t.

“You okay, Timberlake?” Henriquez asked.

“What are you doing up here, Henry?”

The little Latino looked strangely at the corporal. “Uh…dude, we came up here to ditch Parkinson. She never shuts up.”

Timberlake craned his head to look into the cab of the bouncing vehicle. Arnolds was stuck driving, unable to escape Parkinson, a woman who had decided to fend off the men of the unit by being as annoying as she possibly could.

“Where’s Dillon!?” Timberlake demanded. He had almost had him convinced, almost had an ally in making sense of the impossible.

The color drained from Henriquez’s face and his bemused expression melted away. “Dude…Dillon’s dead.” He stared at Timberlake with real concern. “Yesterday, man. Suicide bomber. Happened right after the poker game…You okay, amigo?”

Timberlake stared ahead. Yesterday he and Dillon had been on late patrol. He’d been by the big Texan’s side every hour of the day.

Henriquez looked around, as if to make sure that no one could overhear him, perched as he was on the back of an armored jeep rumbling along a remote desert road. “It’s not your fault, Timberlake.”

Timberlake looked up, shocked.

“He went out to get a pack of smokes, but you were still wiped out from the late patrol the night before. Amigo, if you had gone with him, you’d have both been blown away…” He clapped his hand on Timberlake’s shoulder awkwardly.

“Everything’s changing…” He mumbled.

But Henriquez, worried and listening closely caught the comment. “Aint truer words ever been spoken.”

“Because this is tomorrow. It hasn’t happened yet… when things happen today, it changes what’s happening now, in tomorrow.” All the fuzziness, the blurriness, it was because tomorrow was still being shaped by today. That’s why nothing stayed still, because it was all changing moment to moment. Butterflies flapping their wings and all that shit.

Henriquez frowned, not a thoughtful expression on his face. “Uh, yeah… too deep for me though. I’m glad you volunteered to speak at the wake, not me.”

Yeah, he would have volunteered to speak at the wake. And once he got stateside he’d go see Dillon’s family in Texas. The big man talked about them so damned much, Timberlake felt like he knew them, like they were his family too.

Machinegun fire ripped into the silence. Cursing, Henriquez stood up and grabbed the machinegun’s grip, adding its chatter to the sudden storm of noise. Timberlake grabbed his rifle and searched for targets, dusty shapes in the scrub at the side of the road. He aimed and fired, grateful once again for the responses battered into his body by boot camp. No matter how strange or out of place he was, his body knew what to do.

Gunfire drowned out all thought, until some kind of explosive went off next to the hummvee, throwing Timberlake over the side. At least he was already used to being dizzy and peering through clouded vision, he hardly felt any different.

The gunfire went on and then Henriquez came sliding through the rough sand to his side. “Oh, shit, shit, shit, man… This area was supposed to be clear. It was clear a few days ago…must have snuck in yesterday.” Henriquez fired a few rounds, changed clips, fired again. “We gotta get you up, man.”

Timberlake smiled. He’d just though of something funny. Hell, he was dying, why not share it? “I’ll get up tomorrow…or yesterday…but not today.”


Jarrod Timberlake woke up to the sound of snoring. Only one, very large, set of nostrils on the base made a sound like that. Or else a helicopter was landing outside the bunkhouse. The Lance Corporal propped himself up in bed and looked around. Mike Dillon was lying on the bunk next to his, legs sticking out over the end of the bed, snoring like a band saw.

Timberlake checked his watch – wrapped snugly around his wrist once again – and saw the date: Thursday September fourth, two thousand and eight. It was a big day today.