[Incomplete] The Bridge

The first paragraph of this was just me practicing descriptions of a thing, but then I wanted to write about that. Definitely not a seamless transition between the two. This story is unfinished.

Sweet steeples in a candyish magenta pierce the realm of the sky with their height. Far below, pylons compete for an equal show of power by shooting themselves deep into the sea till they crack its floor and impregnate the Earth. Each of these towers are serial ripples across the water, simply to support the giant bridge. Bleached with a celestial sheen, the bridge provides reason for the pylons and pyramidal canopies as it stretches from two mountains. The one connected continentally is a slight peculiar: though snowy peaked, rockily sided, and green based, a grand staircase connecting the world below with a temple by the bridge. The other which rises from the oceanic abyss proves yet more unusual, for not a perch nor a plateau nor, in fact, a single sign of civilization can be seen on the oceanic mountain, obscuring the need for such a bridge in the first place.  

A single figure was spotted making the great odyssey from one end of the bridge to another. She came on foot, and each step ricocheted in a burst of sound off the bridge’s base. Each step brought her closer to the other side. Her procession continued brisquely and confidently. To calm her nerves, she contemplated the creation of the bridge. The walkway was perfectly flat thanks to the support beams underneath. She recalled from a class in historic studies that this was symbolic of the contrast between human emotion and reality: no part was more difficult to cross, but the human conscious would give the illusion that certain parts were more difficult than others as the body tires. Though the bridge itself was plenty wide, the lack of guardrails apart from the beams carrying the canopies into the air would exacerbate the mental difficulty of crossing the bridge. One would feel as though they were in great peril as they continued. The marble slabs which composed the bridge were aligned in a grid, so she simply made the determination to stay within a single slab’s width the entire trek.

The young woman came to her senses and. All was silent save her own breathing and walking. Her feet ached, though she asserted to herself that they did not. Behind still seemed infinitely shorter than ahead. The sun had just poked itself over the horizon a couple hours after she set out, but now it was well overhead. No warmth came from it; she was over cold waters. The workers who had built the bridge must have fallen in swarms to frostbite. Woolen layers walled her bodily heat from the outside, so she was not particularly cold either, but she shivered nevertheless. Twenty knots extends the bridge, and twenty knots back. About at the same time she would be unable to see the mountain connected to land she would be able to spot the mountain ahead of her. If she kept her current pace continuously, she would meet the mountain at midday.

It was ultimately for humility. She would walk to the mountain and back just to carve her name into its side. Her greatest effort, the culmination of her childhood, was all for a simple carving into rock. It mattered not that she was the brightest in her class or that her creator had given her strength of mind rather than of physique. Not completing the journey by the time light was no longer visible from the temple wasn’t an option for her.

Though strictly prohibited from giving help to her, she recalled the words of her grandfather:

“Crossing the bridge isn’t about your strength of your stamina. Strong young men who

could lift giants have fallen off the bridge. People with the spirit of a horse have still failed.

This is a test of your head’s fortitude. Your trouble breathing will not hinder you. Your

lack of strength will be no issue. Your strength here,” as he pointed to his head, “is the only thing that will matter.”

Her feet were in pain now. Glancing behind, she could still see the mountain. She had established a clear rhythm though; every couple hundred-ish steps the shadow of the next steeple obscured her from the sun. She was a machine. Her feet were not in pain. The heat stopped collecting under her coat, because a machine did not produce heat.

Author's Note

I wanted this story to be done from a third-person narrator but also mainly focus on the state of mind of the protagonist. Please tell me what you think!