“You’re more of a climber.” Hiker says from the darkness of Climber’s shadow. Watching that body work its way up is the same as watching a squirrel with a tree. And Hiker hikes like Climber climbs; they’re both made for what they do.

At the end of their separate paths, atop the same edifice, they spare a look back; beneath them is the world, far, looking drawn, a brethtakingly large tattoo. And, feeling like part of the art, they take out their phones to snap pictures.

“Beautiful.”

“Really is. You thinking Insta, or Twitter?”

“I’m gonna do a Tik-Tok, then this’ll be like a behind the scenes look on the Snap story.”

“Smart.”

Their social media accounts are what funds their trips to this and other scenic locations. People love to see beauty, and the companies pay the people that provide it. The process’ alignment with who Climber and Hiker are, with what they like they do, is a matter of fortune but both would be offended at the suggestion. To be successful is to refuse to be discredited, and they are nothing if not successful. Instead of oxygen, their blood runs validation through veins. Every breath a need for more.

Their continued exploration brings them face to face with darkness. A cave mouth – this mountain’s permanent yawn. “Don’t think I’ve seen anyone post about this.”

“Must be an uncharted cave. Could be dangerous.”

“Probably not for us. I mean, I can climb.”

“Yeah. Should be fine.”

Following the natural wind of the cave’s insides by the light of their phones, they exit cramped passage into spacious cavern lined with reflectors. “This some type of construction site?” The question echoes into the nothingness they both expect.

“No.” So naturally this new voice shocks them, just one word, enough, though, to make them drop their phones. They scramble to pick them up, panicked – two shines reveal the area near to be full of stalagmites, above full of stalactites, and in front a cave dweller that looks like a speleothem himself, tall, spindly, mess of hair the same as surrounding sediment, spiking whichever way the water takes it, which right now is every way.

“What the fu…” Hiker takes a breath, remembering his ongoing recording, “What’re you doing in here? We didn’t come into some random cave expecting to find someone.”

“You didn’t?” Dweller’s disappointed tone disapppears for one of discovery, “Oh; you’re here for the show.”

“Show?” Climber asks; Dweller pats down dirty clothes, in search of something, too occupied to answer.

“Yeah, you two have your phones out; you’re here to record me.” Stranger says as the search ends, in his hands – a box of floss.

“I don’t think what you think -” The objection stops as Dweller straddles stalagmite.

“Yeah, I figured you out,” String of floss wrapped around and stretched between pointer fingers, “This is a solution cave, after all.” The two watch Dweller drag floss across rock, watch the man move head in tune with whatever melody he thinks he’s produced, the silence that only he can give definition to because all they experience is man ineffectively carving rock.

They shut their phones off. That’s not what the people want; it’s just sad.

 End
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