They circled the pit, noted the downward spiral that curled into thick darkness. Dropped a stone and waited for a splash, a thud, the clatter of a change in angle.
“Hell bent?” she quipped.
He sniffed. “No smell of sulphur.”
He tipped his head, brow knit.
“Never mind,” she scanned the landscape for dust devils, signs of life or breath. Nope. Only them: isolate, arid, no stars nor moon above.
“Ladies first,” he nodded towards the pit.
Always leaping, never moving.
She senses a curl of light, a sweet new scent, opens her hands and steps down.
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2017)
Carrot Ranch Prompt (05/18/2017): In 99 words (no more, no less) write a wise story. It can be about wisdom, expressing wisdom or advice for turning 50! It can be a wise-cracking story, too. Go where wisdom leads you.