The Light at the end of the Tunnel

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story involving a source of light—to be taken literally or metaphorically.

In April, 2024, Phil Yeats published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore Nova Scotia town. For information about these books, and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

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The Light at the end of the Tunnel

by Phil Yeats

He woke, lying on rough ground, with a splitting headache. The only light he could see was a dim glow, slightly above what his senses told him was horizontal. He sat and reached around, feeling no walls. He crawled perpendicular to the direction of the light until he encountered a wall, then turned 180°, stood and paced carefully until he encountered another. Five paces, so approximately five metres, and no ceiling within reach of his outstretched hand.

Where the hell was he? Not a rail tunnel, he encountered no tracks, or a road tunnel. The floor was too uneven, with too many sizable rocks for wheeled vehicles. Was he in an aqueduct? If he was, it hadn’t been used for some time. The ground was bone dry. A flood control tunnel, perhaps. That made him feel slightly safer because late December was an unlikely time for floodwaters. But not all that safe. A tunnel of uncertain purpose wasn’t the smartest place for loitering.

He headed for the light, proceeding slowly at first because the footing was bad and he didn’t want to fall into crevasses or crash into overhead obstacles. The ground and ceiling became more clearly defined as he approached the light. He picked up his pace until, when he was a bout thirty metres from the opening, he was running full-tilt.

Big mistake. Like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner, he found himself outside the tunnel, momentarily suspended in midair before tumbling toward he knew not what. After many gyrations and much queasy anticipation of a hard landing, he floated gently to the ground.

“Welcome to 2025,” said a disembodied voice from somewhere far above. “We know 2024 was not the best of years, but we promise to do better in 2025.”

He wondered as he wandered into 2025 who the voice represented and whether their promises would be any more reliable than those politicians made over the past few years.

 

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The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/