The most pointless story ever written :/

FABULAM NARRAVIT

         Persephone careered down the slope to greet a vista of blue sky, green grass and a sheet of orangey-yellow hanging somewhere in between. She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she stumbled through an undergrowth of bushes and weeds seeking to halt her in her stride. The trees blotted out the welkin overhead with a mysterious, withdrawn canopy, the hill growing more mild with every passing step whilst a silhouette of rectangles and domes in the far distance drew ever nearer to her. The horizon, a blindingly-luminous laser cutting its way from one side of the panorama to the other, separated the dark of the land from the bright of the sky.
         Grabbing a hold on a nearby branch, Persephone swung herself forwards, propelling her body out of the maze of trees and into an open expanse. The trees behind her disintegrated into a lush field of roasted orange. Fences drew themselves up on either side of the plain, but too far into the distance to tame the land from her angle. A sea of wild barley drowned her knees as her pace began to slow from fatigue. She lay her hands on her knees and panted.
         Gazing ahead at nothing in particular, she allowed her mind to wander. Modern civilisation had never touched this part of the world which, from above, made her stand out like a cat in a doghouse. Town was still a long way off, and night fell fast in autumn. She brushed her hair aside, which hung down in thick, steely clumps over her shoulders, ironed flat where she had been laying on the grass, and attempted to calculate with all the mathematical concepts of an infant, how long it would take her to get from A to B.
         A vector trek would take her across 3 acres of growing crops on a steady plateau, over a river and down a natural, spiralling staircase of footholds and crags worn into what Persephone thought of as a mountain, but really bore a closer resemblance to a steep hill with a precipice sliced into one side. Two problems presented themselves with this method: Although a score of stepping stones littered the surface of the river, she was tired and they were moss-covered. The swirling vortex of an undercurrent could easily sweep her miles downstream before she could pull herself out at a shallower section of the river. Assuming she didn't drown.
         The second problem was that in miles of identical land with the hot sun beating against her back, Persephone could easily stray off course. Even a slight veer to the left or right could lead her a mile or so away from her final destination before she realised where she was.
         Assuming she didn't get lost.
         Alternatively, she could have turned right, rounded the outskirts of the fence and followed the winding road thence. What put her off this idea was not the few extra miles it would have added to her journey, but what dwelt by the roadside and came out to play when dusk began to sprinkle darkness across the azure. Which it soon would.
         Perhaps it was the fear of highwaymen, or maybe it was simply because the author remembered this story was supposed to be about running down a hill; either or both led to a decision – the cat let sleeping dogs lie.
         Adjusting her blouse and brushing off the dirt that had accumulated on her sleeves, Persephone broke - no, fixed herself into a steady pace, letting the breeze wash over her face while her hair trailed clumsily behind her head and the loose-fitting material of which she was draped flapped and fluttered incessantly against her bare flesh. The dying sun rebounded off her pale skin as her hands caressed their way through the long, fluffy-tipped sticks of barley. As it arced its way downwards toward the west, the shining light on Persephone's skin gradually faded to leave it a dull white.
         Her lacklustre body seemed to absorb the very air around her, becoming heavier with every footfall. Her motions were forced now, and hard to control. Like trying to drive a shopping trolley whose front wheels were slightly bent to one side. And only worsening the further you pushed it. Somewhere across the river an owl hooted.
         The river!
         Whereas her mind had been struggling to link two thoughts together, her feet had been unconsciously leading her out of the yellow pastures, past a brief rocky terrain composed of pretty, pallid stones, and onto the sandy banks which inclined into the river.
         A silence engulfed everything that was as she shifted towards the sound of  running water gently trickle downstream. The sand underfoot moulded to form pristine impressions of her sabots as they crunched their way across the gulf. An eerie stillness instantly foisted its way across the scene – like a freak gust of wind which, instead of feeding the movements of the dancing leaves and swaying treetops, killed them.
         Persephone squatted, drawing her eyes over the river, searching for the promised stepping stones. And then it moved.
         She caught it in the corner of her eye – that was, before it caught her. A hunk of weight, encased in an armour of matted, frizzy brown fur swooped out from the distance and in one fluid motion caught her in its mammoth paw. With teeth lay bare, it snarled.
         Perhaps the most terrifying thing was that the beast didn't look angry so much as it looked hungry. Anger is, in the broad concept, what we perceive as a human emotion; a phenomenon that you are able to, at least partially, draw a strand or two of humanity from. An angry expression denotes intelligence. At least partially. And while this is not strictly reassuring to see in an 800lb wild animal, intelligence you can reason with – maybe not with said bear, but subconsciously a part of the human psyche recognises that two parallel entities possessing this trait are on closer levels than one which has and one which voids it.
         Yet it wasn't angry. Only hungry. The vacant look etched across its face presented only raw, carnal hunger. With that thought in mind, Persephone found herself tossed, thrown and wretched back and forth between two hungry paws and finally into a crimson abyss. The bear belched, coughing up a lone shoe it trotted back to whence it came.

And the morale of the story is, if you can't of think how to end a pointless tale, kill off all the main characters.

~fin.