Chapter 1

I've hit a wall. A big wall. A tall one. A thick one. Made up of bricks. Red bricks. And the mortar isin't about to give. I take a step closer. Maybe I can force my way through it. The wind picks up. Dust blows in to my eyes. Fuck.. It clears. I'm facing the wall again. This time the wall looks taller. Much taller. And the ground scrapes my chin. I'm an ant. Shit! No time for questions. I raise my right leg, then my left. Little claws grasp the porous stone. Foot by foot, claw by claw, millimeter by millimeter, I climb. Higher and higher. The challenging terrain, the penetrating sun, the distance ahead of me brings me solace.


Buzzer sounds. 


Morning breaks and white light creeps through the wooden blinds separating me from prying primal eyes and the natures souls, hovering over the warm damp river rocks in hopes of finding light. The unmistakeable rush and whistle of the creek inching its way over the bedrock is comforting, making getting out of bed ever more difficult. Last night's worries ease with every waking moment. With one swift pull, the blinds recede in to the ceiling, leaving in its wake the full bodied warmth of the northern sunlight. The cold, dry concrete floor sends a surge of signals up the nervous system. As if a switch had been flipped on, Mark springs from the comfort of his solid wood bed kept warm by bison pelts and white cotton linens.


The room is bare. No paintings hang on the slate grey walls; no furniture, with the exception of 2 floating shelves, where an assortment of neatly-folded bamboo infused T-shirts, carpenter jeans and tan cargo shorts lie piled with surgical precision. The heat coming through the wall of windows is rising. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. With routine accuracy, Mark makes his way through the contemporary 1 bedroom house in to the kitchen where professional grade copper cookware hangs above the wood fired stove. Despite the modern design of this rural oasis, the primitive stove seems to have found its place alongside the custom crafted while enamel cupboards and stainless steel cabinets. Footsteps away, the polished concrete floors extend in to a lounge area, where an italian leather sofa rests adjacent to a caribou skin. The animal's antlers hung centered on the North wall break the monotony of the room. Despite the modernity of the structure, technology is scarce. There is no tv in sight. microwave is inexistant. even a fridge is no where to be found. Apart from the meticulous interior design, the only connection to society is the outdated macbook resting on the couch and the analog alarm clock on the zen inspired bed frame.

Casually, Mark lights the stove. Without hesitation, the dry wood catches fire. The smell of burning pine escapes through the cast iron oven door, moving swiftly and ghostly through the kitchen and in to the bedroom, passing through the lounge. As if summoned by a higher power, it glides through the air and around the antlers, floating high above the sofa, only to gather over the bed. Had Mark walked by the bedroom, at that very moment, he would have noticed the peculiar figure the cloud took on over the bed before it dissipated. Mark, however, had a more important calling to answer to: hunger.