Camp Damascus(84)
Soon enough, the former prisoners are gathering large sticks from the woods, wrapping fabric around the ends, and then igniting these makeshift torches with the nearby fires.
The camper from the archery range pumps his fist in the air one last time—delivering the most ferocious battle cry an angsty teen has ever mustered—then starts trudging his way through the woods, back toward the camp’s faculty center. The rest of the campers follow close behind.
* * *
As Camp Damascus continues to burn, echoes of snapping wood and bone filling the air, our trio turns and disappears into the forest. We’re headed the opposite direction, taking our time without the threat of demons or the people who haphazardly wield them.
We move in silence.
It’s not long before we arrive back at Willow’s vehicle, standing on the edge of the mountain and gazing across Neverton below. It’s an absolutely glorious vista, and while I’ve witnessed it plenty of times, there’s something special about tonight’s.
A weight has been lifted, not just from us, but from every victim of that terrible place.
I glance over to catch Saul enjoying a similar moment of reflection. He’s not wearing any headphones, his meditation holding its own without the help of any particular soundtrack.
Willow steps next to me, and as she does I turn to meet her gaze. Our eyes lock, and suddenly a powerful urge overtakes my body.
“Hey” is all she says, a million little things communicated within the breathless tone of this singular word.
I can’t help the smile that works its way across my lips, an uncontrollable display of the lurking joy that bubbles its way to the surface and fully consumes me.
We don’t hesitate, refusing to wait a second longer before our lips meet in a passionate eruption. We melt into each other, all the stress and strain and fear that kept us at arm’s length finally crumbling away.
This is so much better than the memory of our last kiss, not only thanks to the visceral warmth of her body against mine, but for the future that lies stretched out before us. This isn’t just some hazy recollection that could dissipate at any moment, it’s the real thing.
Memories come and go, but the present is ours.
Within the softness of her lips and the tickle of her hair as it frames my cheeks, I discover a safety unlike anything I’ve ever known, a sense of true acceptance.
Meanwhile, the flames continue billowing into the sky behind us, a raging inferno where Camp Damascus once stood. The blaze is so large that its orange, mountainside glow illuminates the entire Neverton valley.
My shadow stretches on for miles, fully engulfing the city below.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHUCK TINGLE is a mysterious force of energy behind sunglasses and a pink mask. He is also an anonymous author of romance, horror, and fantasy. Tingle was born in Home of Truth, Utah, and now splits his time between Billings, Montana, and Los Angeles, California. Tingle writes to prove love is real, because love is the most important tool we have when resisting the endless cosmic void. Not everything people say about Tingle is true, but the important parts are. You can sign up for email updates here.
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