The Volcano Man

By Jordan Stone

Waters washed up pillow lava from the sea. I walked in a brisk manor towards an abandon lemonade stand on the beach, the wind howled around the volcano. My feet were glazed with sand, imprinting molds into the ground. The cool nigh3t air fed my lungs with the sweet oxygen. The water lunged out of the sea and seeped up to where I was walking along the beef. The hair on my arms stood up from the wind chill. A man wearing a white mask and a black cape strolled along the jagged lava about a mile up ahead. The broken wood blockaded the water along the water line. A green shadow edged out a picture in the mist of the night. The entrance of the volcano at the forefront of the beach, forging its way into the forest. I followed the man into the forest. Footsteps swiped across the jungle floor, time almost stood still. The trees caved in forming a tunnel of green that lead to the top of the mountain. The man swiftly scampered up the path to the volcano. The rocks of lava formed a maze, the man entered. I heard a noise right in front of me My heart started pumping faster and faster, sprinting through the maze, I found a mask, white with a black cape lying piled up half burned by lava half still intact. A section of dry lava formed a bridge that lad to a straw hut 15 yards away. The rich smell of coconuts filled the room, the thatched roof made the house warm and cozy. I walked around the house searching for life. Nobody came or called. The next day at the bar there was a poster with the face of a burned man, he went missing last night.