Suffer.
“The Rope”
by Solomon Forse
Originally appearing in Boneyard Soup Magazine, Vol. 1 No. 4, published 1 October 2021
Brian thought the rope was from an old tire swing, or maybe even a hanging—after all, that old frontier town used to sit at the edge of these woods.
But there weren’t any scraps of rubber on the ground. And there weren’t any sun-bleached bones.
His eye caught a nearby spider web glistening in the last rays of light. Its filaments quivered as an orb-weaver climbed its threads.
Brian glanced back to the rope.
It must have been for climbing.
A windstream of nostalgia swept over him, carrying memories like fallen leaves—images of him sneaking onto construction lots with friends, stealing armfuls of boards and nails, hauling them out to the forest to build forts.
That was it. Some kids had probably tied the rope there to access their hideout.
Scanning the branches above him, Brian craned his neck so far he stumbled backward. But upon regaining his balance, he could see the rope wasn’t attached to anything at all. It went right through the tree canopy and stretched all the way into the darkening sky. It must have been hundreds, no, thousands of feet long, suspended somewhere far beyond the reach of his eyesight, surmounting the clouds and stretching into the infinite beyond.
Brian returned his gaze. He stepped closer to the rope, squinting.
It didn’t have those twisted cords like most ropes. And it didn’t seem to be made from flax fibers or horse hair—but there was certainly some kind of hair on it. It reminded him of those zoomed-in photos of insects from magazines. And the rope looked … wet. But upon closer inspection, maybe “wet” wasn’t the right word. It didn’t appear sodden from rainfall. Rather, the rope possessed a sheen, as if glazed with viscous ooze.
Brian held his breath and reached out.
Carefully, he dabbed his fingertip in the sap-like substance. It was syrupy. And cool. But when he retracted his hand, the rope clung to him like flypaper.
With a cry, he yanked his hand away, and although he momentarily freed himself, the motion only flung the sticky rope into his body. Brian grasped the rope with both hands to tear it from his shirt—and realized his mistake.
A pungent odor like fish slime assaulted his nose, and that was when the rope started squirming beneath his grip, like the wriggling of a giant earthworm.
Brian’s eyes darted back and forth, his mind racing with desperation. When he finally looked down, he realized he could still use his legs. Perhaps if he had enough slack, Brian thought, he might circle a nearby tree, thus wrapping the rope around the trunk. After several passes, he could create enough leverage to push off the trunk with his legs and pry himself free.
With the viscid rope still writhing beneath his grip, the putrid stench now unbearable, Brian dashed for the tree.
As he moved, the rope snapped taut, jerking his arms upward. Branches lashed his face; the wind roared over his body.
Jaw clenched, he glanced down at the gloomy landscape that was rushing away from him faster and faster—treetops and meadows and zigzagging creeks—all getting smaller and smaller.
He dared not look up.