forlorn {ghosty/rook}
Jul 10, 2017 17:40:08 GMT -5
Post by rook on Jul 10, 2017 17:40:08 GMT -5
PERSEPHONE DANCING
The muskeg exhales a thick, unwelcome smog out into the heavy summer air, shrouding the worn out trees and blotting out the tired sun. It's as if the boggy earth is aching, and in some melancholy effort to show the rest of planet that it is still alive somewhere deep beneath the mire, it breathes out all its pain and misery in one single, weighted sigh. This sad, sorry existence of a swamp is like an old friend to me, one who has stuck by me through the hard days and the best, too. A resource of food, shelter, beauty, and above all peace.
My father lived off this land, and his father did too before him; the methods and techniques they relied on were passed down from generation to generation, and now they rest with me, a lone fisherman sitting solitary at the edge of a sunken lake. I suppose one day, when I am dust, they will rest with with whatever living legacy I have left imprinted on this world. Whispers of me etched on the wind, echoes of Dancing.
A spatter of rain casts over the still body of water, pittering across the surface in therapeutic harmony. I inhale slowly through my nose, the strong smells of rivergrass and swamp gases take me back to when I was a child, when father showed me how to make a fishing tackle with a shoestring and a piece of jagged rabbit bone. It took me weeks to learn cast right, and months to actually catch anything substantial. It didn't matter, it was all part of learning. father was always immensely proud. Those days are gone, and when I sit silently on this rotting pier, I can almost hear the past bleeding behind me, screaming on the wind in bursts of gunfire.
Everything has changed now.
Four mouths to feed, times getting harder. The lake seems void of any large fish, my hauls have become more sparce. I reel in my line, unsurprisingly the rancid bait is untouched. I string up the three small darters beside me and hoist them over my shoulder. A small catch is better than no catch.
The sky stares down at me, grey and unresponsive. I look up with brief curiosity, squinting at the dull cloud cover. The rain has swept down the valley and out into the estuary, leaving the trees here dripping wet and miserable, leaning to the side in exhaustion. I carry a heavy bottle of vodka in my right hand as I hike back up over the ridge and into the thicket on Twelve's edge. I take slow swigs as I think of all the cliches my father told me about getting through the hard times; it was all patronising bullshit.
I tilt my head back to take another step, and my foot slips down and catches in something. I twist off balance and then I'm falling. Fuck. I clench my teeth as I fall to my side, dropping the bottle and the fish as I fall, trying to turn to my side. I feel a snap in my ankle, and then my head hits something hard, and then black.
My father lived off this land, and his father did too before him; the methods and techniques they relied on were passed down from generation to generation, and now they rest with me, a lone fisherman sitting solitary at the edge of a sunken lake. I suppose one day, when I am dust, they will rest with with whatever living legacy I have left imprinted on this world. Whispers of me etched on the wind, echoes of Dancing.
A spatter of rain casts over the still body of water, pittering across the surface in therapeutic harmony. I inhale slowly through my nose, the strong smells of rivergrass and swamp gases take me back to when I was a child, when father showed me how to make a fishing tackle with a shoestring and a piece of jagged rabbit bone. It took me weeks to learn cast right, and months to actually catch anything substantial. It didn't matter, it was all part of learning. father was always immensely proud. Those days are gone, and when I sit silently on this rotting pier, I can almost hear the past bleeding behind me, screaming on the wind in bursts of gunfire.
Everything has changed now.
Four mouths to feed, times getting harder. The lake seems void of any large fish, my hauls have become more sparce. I reel in my line, unsurprisingly the rancid bait is untouched. I string up the three small darters beside me and hoist them over my shoulder. A small catch is better than no catch.
The sky stares down at me, grey and unresponsive. I look up with brief curiosity, squinting at the dull cloud cover. The rain has swept down the valley and out into the estuary, leaving the trees here dripping wet and miserable, leaning to the side in exhaustion. I carry a heavy bottle of vodka in my right hand as I hike back up over the ridge and into the thicket on Twelve's edge. I take slow swigs as I think of all the cliches my father told me about getting through the hard times; it was all patronising bullshit.
I tilt my head back to take another step, and my foot slips down and catches in something. I twist off balance and then I'm falling. Fuck. I clench my teeth as I fall to my side, dropping the bottle and the fish as I fall, trying to turn to my side. I feel a snap in my ankle, and then my head hits something hard, and then black.
