by The Author
Somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains, I was a horny little hillbilly who only wanted romance in his life.
"Dangnabbit!" was my regular expression whenever I would clumsily clamber around in the woods, gathering mushrooms and honey in my turquoise overalls.
My name was Hank, and I was known by the townsfolk as "Horny Hank," who always drank Hank's root beer by himself. I was known to be cold, keeping to myself. I knew that everyone talked about me, but never to me directly. Not once did anyone genuinely try to get to know me. No, not one. I was aware of gossip, and that I was ostracized because I was a predator, and for simply being a weirdo.
I lived alone in a cedar shack outside of town, a home I worked hard to build, but never celebrated once I had completed it. Many of the other homes in town were also made of cedar. This is because the town was situated at the base of an anomalous mountain comprised entirely of cedar wood. The community called it "Scorched Sierra," which was likely due to it's resemblance of a Sierra mountain.
Although the hills surrounding the area were natural and normal, Scorched Sierra was the odd one out. The entire mountain was made up of cedar wood, mostly in the form of compressed sawdust and ash and giant planks of timber. Throughout the mountain were perpetual fires that burned and scorched the summit.
Sometimes, the townspeople used the term "tortured timbers" to refer to the timber that they "mined" from the mountain. No one lived on the mountain itself, due to the dangers of the endless burning and harmful smoke.
Year after year, everyone around me lived their lives, making memories, progressing. I, on the other hand, wasn't building any kind of meaningful life at all, and I was missing out on life, endlessly feeling stagnant and lost. Everyone's gossip evaporated like the smoke up on Scorched Sierra, the timbers of time burning away into ashes.
The summit of Scorched Sierra contained the best quality timber, and everyone knew it. However, few ever ventured up there, due to the fires, smoke, and embers. It was far too easy to get burned alive up there. The summit was hellish, and one could spontaneously combust from the hateful heat.
Although I was one of the few willing to go to the top, I was foolish and gullible. Attempt after attempt, year after year, I would ascend the wooden mountain in hopeful pursuit of the best quality timbers.
Needless to say, time after time, I got burnt and came away empty-handed and disappointed.
After enough time had passed and enough attempts had been made, I decided to simply give up. I'm not some goddamn superhero with unlimited powers.
The people seemed to want me dead, for no real reason, and I would grant their wish. No more false hopes. No more waiting for things to cool down and acquire what I desired. No more isolation and existing alone.
Not one more day would I wait around for something that would never arrive and was truly unattainable.
NOT. ONE. MORE. DAY.
"Too late timbers," I mumbled to myself.
I climbed to the summit of Scorched Sierra, and I allowed myself to spontaneously combust, being burned alive, enduring the pain as the hateful heat consumed me.
As I ceased to exist, I saw my crispy body as I spiraled upward, floating away, further and further from the earth, drifting into oblivion.
THE END.