A "Fiction Friday" Snippet.

So a man walked and walked, up through the tall soft grass, up and up to the top of a huge, round hill. The hilltop was bare but for a low, broken stone wall, and down the far side of the hill tumbled a darkness of low, thick, mossy trees overhung with a dense canopy of leaves, deep and rustling.

The man peered into the spaces between the thick, gnarled, branching trunks. Here and there lay small specks of light like bright, odd-sized pennies gleaming upon the dry mottled matt of wide, rusted leaves. The man's gaze lingered, and became unfocused. The view from the hill was an Impressionist painting. His watering eyes strayed upwards. Wp above and over the darkness of the forest, to the lake beyond, a dark deep field of blurred blue burned with sparks, spots of splintered sunlight dancing and swimming on a surface of shifting facets. Beyond the lake, looming from far below to high above him, jutted the massive towering expanse of Mt. Poopydoodoo.

The man, dazed from the dizzying view, sat back upon the low broken stone wall, and drank in the adjectives.