The fairytale terrain is a masked jester of the belligerent panic and muffled screams in the distance. The forest rattles its leafy hair and shakes its battered bodies. The water grazes its tounges against the creaking canoe and duels against the splintered oar. And still the artist shades the sky with his graphite thumb and the musician sings his whistled tune in the wind.

I would have noticed this, yes, had it not been for the beads of sweat rolling down the nape of my neck and the drum of my heart in my aching chest. Still, I paddled in the unbound wilderness, my presence a parasite in the peaceful landscape. The hands that once danced with puppet strings were now numb and ponderous on the dilapidated oar. The eyes that once beheld jewels and balls were now squinting in the lashing water. The ears that once rang at the sound of symphonies were now shriveling at the slash of clamored shouts.

That’s when I feel it, the world abandoning its grip on me. My brows furrow, something is going on. I stop rowing, just for a moment. But still, the river carries me, it is calmer now, excepting that the strange foreigner will be soon be gone again. My eyes widen with the truth, and yes I can hear it. The roar of the beast up ahead, the sound of clashing water.

Quickly, I try to steer my canoe to the shore, but the river grips my oar with their lashing hands. The sounds of my pursuers grow dim under the rage of the water. That is when I stop. I put my oar down and I plant my hands on the rim of my canoe. I close my eyes and wait for fate to play my cards.