The Heart Beats, the River Runs (2)

­ ­ ­   The Heart Beats, The River Runs (working title)

 

 

A scream as loud as anything rippled through the canyon. Three friends stopped frolicking in the glacial tide of the river and scurried to the shore. Unaware, for the moment, where the sound had come from, each felt terrified in their nakedness. A certain alienation swam through their collective veins when, for that one moment, the moment of Barbara’s wailing, they wondered if they were safe with each other. They listened as the terror above thawed and one person shouted to call 9-1-1, while another ushered children out onto the grassy lawn where orange poppies covered the ground in a rough formation from the porch leading to the water and away from the saloon. In the stillness, another cool headed woman demanded that everyone take some steps back from the giant man on the ground.

 

Barbara was laughing with no account to anyone around her. She laughed the way she would have when she was a kid were she not afraid of the way people looked at her. She laughed at Gary’s antics out of pure joy. And then the thud and the yelling and the silence and the demand for higher authorities in the form of numbers that her mama made her remember as a youngster. His body stopped heaving and her husband was kneeling at his side, checking his heart. Decades of nursing had not prepared her. The joy left her face in the form of a scream the moment Gary collapsed on the floor of the River Run Saloon. Anyone on the river could hear her desperate plea – Gary? Gary? Gary! – up and down the river, and probably all the way to the river’s floor. She imagined it for just a moment, descending to the bottom of their river. She saw the trout scuttling this way and that, certainly confused by the dry sonic scream resonating from the dining room. Gary’s name hastened pieces of shale toward metamorphism, the echo loosening small pieces from their large gray slabs, petrified dinosaurs roused from millennial sleep to slough a century worth of dust from their backs before slipping back into place. The rocks felt nothing. A sudden breeze rustled the needles from the pines. Glasses rattled on their shelves back in the saloon as everyone stood stock still, afraid to do anything but gape in awe of Gary’s giant body, lifeless on the floor.

 

 

At the edge of the dining room, Barbara’s husband Robert smoked cigarette after cigarette. Barbara was never one to panic in the face of physical pain. She wasn’t one who swooned in agony at death. Barbara’s screams after Gary’s body fell to the floor shattered something deep inside of him. He couldn’t name it.

 

The only time he could recall Barbara tremble below the weight of all of the death and pain she had witnessed was the day she and Robert decided, on their joint fiftieth birthday, to move away from Oakland. That day, Robert had planned a birthday surprise for her. He had already been to the town of River Run, Population: 93 and he had found the perfect piece of land for them to build on. The deal would be sealed once she took a look at the property.

She came home, flopped on the couch and began to recount her day. She had resuscitated a small child, only to watch him die a short while later. The doctors were cutting corners. No one was practicing medicine any more. No one looked at bodies as being. Her head hurt. Robert looked at her, knowing that his timing couldn’t have been any better. His own hands were weary and withering from running his father’s carpentry business and Barbara had nursed the sick and dying since she was nine years old. He told her of his escape plan quietly. She looked into Robert’s face, scanned the length of his enormous brown body, took in the wrinkles around his eyes, the thick skin of his hands and she knew they could do it. As he poured the wine and recited the plans he’d been making, Barbara began to sob. He was so shocked by her crooning. He placed her glass down and went to her, immediately putting his hands on her back to soothe the heat exploding from every part of her.

 

He pulled her tightly to his chest, so tightly that she had to lift her head to catch her breath. He saw in her face a quiet distress she had hidden for decades. His was no longer a romantic plan. He looked at her and said, “Up there the river runs, baby. And all we gotta do is let it pass us by.”

“Let’s just go,” she whimpered.

The possibility terrified her and excited her. They could lead a simple and quiet life if they were frugal and careful. Barbara would no longer have to tend gunshot wounds or gangrenous legs or hematomas suffered in fist fights. She would no longer have to pump tiny hearts that would later cease to beat. Robert could fish and do a little carpentry on the side. They could rest. And so they pursued a life in the woods, on the river.

 

Robert stared now at Gary’s massive chest. He was the most powerful man Robert had ever met – the kind of man who could fell a dancing gray pine with just an ax and maybe some whiskey. He took a simple drawing and made it into a house. Gary was the only other human who disturbed Barbara’s constant calm.

 

There were no sirens, only flashing red lights as the ambulance drove quietly into town. Neither speeding recklessly, nor, honking at the stoned and sun-scorched twenty-year old kids loitering in the middle of the narrow, two-lane road, the driver parked pulled in slowly and parked the bus a respectful distance from the door. The waitresses of the River Run Saloon had already draped Gary’s body with a table cloth. As the medics rolled him toward the bus, one calloused brown hand dropped enormously to the side of the gurney. It hung heavily, jerking in time, the wheels beneath hitting each and every pebble on the road. If she squinted her eyes just right, Barbara thought it looked like he was waving for help.

 

A green station wagon, piled high with dusty camping gear and quasi-revolutionary bumper stickers, drove slowly by. The three inhabitants tried hard not to crane their necks too far while attempting to interpret the scene unfolding at the River Run Saloon. Nice try, Barbara thought. She caught the eye of one of the passengers and could see herself in the woman’s face, a glance frozen the way Barbara felt her heart was.

 

Back at the house the sun was falling. She watched a stream of light rest across the curtain of pines up the mountain. She held herself with both hands tightly across her chest and leaned solidly against the oak door frame. Even the frogs and the crickets and dragonflies seemed to honor the quiet, whispering their deaths to each other in the night. She could hear Robert pacing in his shed, rummaging through his carefully organized drawers full of tools and nuts and bolts, chiseling a piece of wood and stopping. Then, the sound of his lighter, a faint breeze carrying his smoke to her nostrils. She hadn’t smoked a single cigarette all day. Barbara inhaled deeply and remembered the day Robert nailed the final nail into their new cabin and new life. The settling scents of freshly cut pine and oak boards in the studio built especially so that she could paint, each shelf, each beam and pane of glass laid by Robert’s hands.

 

When she opened her eyes and it was truly dusk. Robert wandered out to the side of the house to chop wood for the evening fire. It wasn’t cold, but it was tradition. The first thwack of his ax startled her. His strokes became heavier and faster and for a few moments he grunted in time with his ax swing. She thought, before turning wordlessly to enter the kitchen, that they didn’t need any more wood. He paused, straightened, and wiped his forehead. She realized that he hadn’t touched her all day.

 

Barbara was tall and thick. Her skin was a mixture of brown and red, as soft to the touch as fresh clay from the ground. At 53, her eyes were as clear as newly blown glass. She stood by the kitchen counter, attempting to straighten her back to the rigid posture she’d promised her mother, unable to stop the feeling that she might be losing her sight. Of course it was the onion she’d just split open for dinner, the acidic ether finding it’s host, sparking a few tears from Barbara’s eyes. Her nose began to run and so she held the onion halves in her hands, closer now to her face, waiting for the breathlessness not ready to come. There was a strong burning in her belly, but no sob escaped her.

She felt trapped. She wanted the tears and crying. She wanted so desperately to blame the tear tracks on the onions, to lie a concrete lie. Deep breaths and short concentration would not connect the onions and the tears and the grief. It wouldn’t cry itself away.

 

The onion was placed back on the cutting board, sliced neatly. The chicken was dressed and situated in the oven. She placed the apron on its hook next to the sink and padded back out the kitchen door.

She thought for a second before opening the door to his shed. The light shining beneath the door seemed a beacon she wasn’t ready to heed. The door blew open and Barbara suddenly lost her breath. Robert was waiting for her. He looked up and straight into her eyes. He let his fingers loosen around the cherry wood grip of his father’s chisel, letting it fall to the table briefly, and then gripped it tightly again.

 

She looked at him evenly and asked, “How you doin?”

“You know.”

She wanted to touch his face. “I know.”

“What about Gary?” He took deep breaths and Barbara knew he was going to drain it out of her. She paused before speaking again.

“You know how much I love you, Robert.”

“I did.”

More deep breaths.

“Robert…”

“You slept with my best friend.” He didn’t look up.

“No!” They were both surprised by this declaration. “No, Robert. I didn’t. Not once.”

Robert’s chest rose and fell, compressing and expanding the little oxygen reaching his lungs. Maybe he never wanted to know.

The chicken and the beans were wafting in from the kitchen. She thought to make an excuse of it, but Robert caught her glance. “Let it burn,” he ordered.

She thought to remind him that she didn’t take orders. “I know I’ve hurt you, Robert. I know I have.”

Robert pulled the bourbon and the glass he kept below his work bench and poured long. Splinters of wood dust rushed to the top along with the liquid. He took it all into his mouth without a flinch. He would start to get drunk, and, because it was serious, he would become quieter. She took the empty glass from his hands and looked at him directly. He poured more of the bourbon into the glass, and she drank. He poured again, lit a cigarette and stared at the ground.

“It’s hard enough being here sometimes,” she said after a minute.

“We got a house, a nice life. We got friends Barbara.”

“None of them from where we from!”

Robert straightened. “Are you telling me you fucked my best friend because you miss Oakland?”

“No! And I told you, I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you told me.”

This wasn’t working. “I’m gonna go turn off the oven.”

 

The next two days passed, a series of perfunctory chores interrupted here and there with a silence so thick it could be mistaken for thunder. Robert slept in his shed for a few hours each night and cut wood and hammered nails into what ever made sense at the time, while Barbara began a new regimen of cigarettes and wine. They met each other in the kitchen for a few moments at a time. She would look at him and he would look away and then, so would she. Perhaps they would never speak again.

 

The night before the service, Robert soaked his hands in lemon juice and warm water. He scraped layers of soft dead skin from his hands with a pumice stone. To look dignified. His fingers burned and he winced stoically, the way that young boys are taught to in the face of pain. He’d done this the night before they signed on the land at River Run. Barbara thought of this as she watched Robert tying his old black tie. His hands were softer now and shiny, yet his fingertips were still not sensitive enough for the delicate intricacies of tying a tie. Before he could throw it off of his neck, Barbara walked wordlessly to him and finished the job. She let her hand rest on his chest and felt his heart skip a beat. Gripping the front of his shirt quickly, she exhaled, thinking of the new wrinkles she had created. Robert didn’t want to remove her hand with his own, so he turned slowly, adjusted the tie, a gesture, and left the room.

 

Trees green, dead branches and roots winding around the road. She cataloged those things she would paint. Revery came and went with the passing pines. A mile away from the burial site, she pulled over and began to speak, “About Gary…we need to talk about this some how.”
“I ain’t thinkin about that now.”
“Then what?”

“We got family comin here. Gary’s family. They might as well be our own, you know…Well, we didn’t even think about arrangements or nothin. I mean, this town, fulla Black folks…”
“I know.”

“It’s just-”

“It’ll be all right. They’re not gonna turn them all out,” she was talking about the folks in town.
“No, maybe not so much with they words.”

 

She looked straight ahead when they turned onto the paved road. The saloon was up the road a ways. Barbara recalled the first time she had been there, the stares of polite people and then the glares of those who were less gracious in their welcome. Gary stepped in from the balcony, bleary eyed at 3pm, and took Barbara and Robert into his arms as though they were one. “So glad y’all finally made it! Barbara, you’re gonna love this place!”

 

The owner of the saloon, Duke, appeared from thin air and shook her hand before shaking Roberts. The wrinkles around his eyes, his white hair and yellow mustache betrayed years of hard living. He looked at her and repeated Gary’s words verbatim. Barbara smiled and Gary laughed and winked at her. Robert was making friends at the other end of the bar while she stood stock still in the center of the room, Gary knew exactly what she was thinking. He took her arm and whispered into her neck, “You’ll stop wondering if they gonna kill you in your sleep after the third drink.” He laughed again and she continued to smile, relieved that she wasn’t going crazy on her first day in town.

 

Most evenings were spent at the River Run Saloon. Duke made jokes about the women who worked for him, and the women griped and smoked and leaned on the bar when they weren’t serving drinks or steaks to locals and tourists. Gary showed up every night as well, always two whiskey’s ahead of Robert. Robert would talk fishing and hiking and guns – he’d just recently purchased one – with whomever would walk in, and Gary would laugh raucously and then turn quiet and ask Barbara questions. She liked artists like Pearl Fryar and Emory Douglas. Her mother died suddenly and no one knew why. Her brother had leukemia and she’d always thought she could save him. She only started to like purple after reading some books by Alice Walker, and this fact embarrassed her. At the end of these nights, Gary would walk the two out to the road and they would begin the mile walk back into the forest where they’d built their new home. He’d wave a final wave and then turn back into the saloon to have two more whiskeys and another round of laughter with whomever was still awake.

 

One afternoon, she’d wandered into the saloon on her own while Robert messed around in his shed. She ordered a merlot and a salad, and that’s when Midget told her, “You folks are the funnest people to have around!” Barbara didn’t know whether to punch or kick or run away. She giggled a little and said, “Oh, thanks.”

Midget was a perceptive lady, and not, in spite of her name, short in stature or size. She sat down uninvited and apologized immediately. “I didn’t mean ‘you people’, I meant you and Robert.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“No,” Midget said. “It’s important that you know that. River Run usually feels like a town of carnies and hippies and rednecks, but you and Gary and Robert showed up and you just make this town feel real like it’s a home. And Gary. Lord knows how he does it, but he just reels us all in. Even the folks that aren’t so…enlightened. Treats everyone the same. Like we’re family.” Barbara downed her merlot and Midget stood to get her another. Midget thought they were friends now and Barbara knew this is how she should get along. She swallowed the new glass of wine in two gulps and ordered a whiskey. The pines and oaks danced together in a gray green pallor and she hated Robert’s ideal.

Every once in a while one of baby rednecks would show up stoned and drunk at the saloon and try to start something with Barbara, thinking she was an easy target. Before the men could stand up and protest, Barbara would disarm them, staring so coldly that any would be assailant would be frozen in terror. In those few times, Robert found himself afraid of her. After one of these run ins, Robert went out to the front to smoke and to make sure they weren’t coming back. Gary scooted in close to Barbara and said seriously, “I ain’t afraid of ya.” Then he stared at her long and hard. This made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. They laughed all night.

Days later, Gary found himself on their porch, asking if he could come in for a bit. He had no reason on earth to show up in the middle of the afternoon. He knew that Robert had gone a few towns over to check on the incoming lumber supply and wouldn’t be back until dinner. When Barbara opened the door, Gary just laughed and said, “I know you think I’m just an old drunk from Oakland, but I’d like to prove to you that I can do more than wield a bottle.” She didn’t know whether to be mad or flattered, but she let him in.

 

He sat on the couch, straighter than he’d ever sat in his life, she was sure. After a minute or two he said, “You know, the other night you were talking about Pearl Fryar, and I started thinking about this man and topiaries.”

“He’s an incredible artist,” she looked away from his sweaty brow.

“I don’t know much about him, really,” he thought to look away.
“You should look at this book then.” She meant he should take it home, how ever, he immediately began thumbing through it. She looked at his face expectantly, and eventually sat beside him, discussing the art and ethics of topiaries.

“I don’t know,” he was saying, “You’ve got this tree, this thing that’s coming straight outta the earth…but, I just wonder, what makes a man want to change something, that obviously is made to be one thing, and turn it into something else?”

She thought for a moment, then replied, “I think you’re looking at it differently than I would.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. I guess…it’s just that it seems to me that if a thing was meant to be something, then it would end up that way, no matter how it got there.” Gary looked puzzled. “Like this, think of us. We’re two black people from Oakland, up here in the woods. I bet when your people moved to Oakland, all of their people thought they were crazy to move all the way to California, much less a big ol’ city. And when you moved, well, I imagine your folks thought you crazy to move back to the mountains.” She took a sip of tea and continued, “I started thinking about this when we moved here. I was the one thinking we were crazy to move to the mountains, to a town fulla rednecks. But I started thinkin about what this land was like before the rednecks and the roads and…I don’t know. I guess I mean that the land is still here. The trees are still growing, the river still runs, and me and Robert are the same as we were when we got here, ‘cept maybe a little bit more peaceful.”

“Y’alls hearts beatin a little bit slower.”
“Yeah.”

Gary saw for the first time the tiny trimmed bonsais on the window sill and in the kitchen. His eyes moved slowly, taking in the center-metrical pine needles, the graceful moss growing, in each pot, toward north.

He stood to leave, saying simply, “See you two tonight then.”

 

Driving through the pines toward Gary’s funeral, she wanted them all to be small. She gripped the wheel and squinted her eyes and more than once, she shut them tightly.

At the funeral home, Robert approached Duke about the logistics of Gary’s folks being in town. Duke tugged his mustache pensively and said, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I guess I’ll call down to the Saloon and make sure there are enough beds. And whiskey.” He surveyed the lines of cars now arriving, full of cautious and anxious brown faces. He nodded toward them, “If Gary’s folks are anything like Gary, they’re gonna want some whiskey.”

 

“You got some now?” Robert whispered.

 

Duke slid his hand into his coat pocket to retrieve a simple flask. Robert clutched it for a long minute before turning away and bringing it to his lips, holding the liquid long enough to enjoy the acidic tinge before it became noticeable on his face. He exhaled as he screwed the cap back on and passed the flask back to Duke, who took his own shameless sip before putting it back in his pocket.

“Hoo-Boy.”

 

Along with Gary’s two brothers and three sisters, Robert helped to lower Gary into the ground as Barbara watched, squinting her eyes. Gary’s family took turns tossing a handful of dirt onto the coffin and turning away. Barbara wanted to shove hers into her mouth, to taste the cool earth. She threw it instead and hurried off toward the car. Midway she thought of Robert, thought that rushing away was an admission of guilt, so she stopped in the weeds and hard earth, drew a deep breath and stood quietly, stifling any tear that might have run by taking big breaths of mountain air through her nostrils.

 

They descended the mountain, back into the town of River Run, Population: 93. There was a short traffic jam as Gary’s brother TT, who was leading the caravan, nearly turned onto an unmarked road, which seemed to be owned by a pack of scabby mutts and a bewildered white man who looked like Santa on a bender. Mistaking the man’s smile for a grimace, TT’s grief momentarily overwhelmed him and he leaped from his car demanding “What the fuck is your fuckin problem?” Robert, several cars down, jumped out shouting, “Wait! TT! Wait,” explaining that the man was a friend and that TT was on the wrong road. No apologies were necessary. Robert shook the old man’s hand and hustled back to the car. TT and his sister and brothers moved their cars to let Robert’s through, and Robert led them past the pines and confusing turn offs, back to the River Run Saloon, the dogs trotting slowly behind.

 

 

In the saloon, Robert, whose tie was now as wrinkled as the front of his shirt, was bouncing between clusters of people. He held Gary’s sister around the shoulders and seemed to sip slowly the whiskey in his favorite tumbler. Barbara realized that the people in the town were taking cues from him; drinking slowly as he did, laughing out loud when he laughed; patting strangers on the back. She felt drawn to him, and she glued herself to his side for the rest of the evening, following his every move. He looked at her only once, while she was talking to Gary’s sister. He felt compelled to say, “Don’t you all know each other already?” They both looked at him as if to know what he meant, Robert looked at Gary’s sister’s face, because he knew that he didn’t trust what he would find in Barbara’s eyes.

 

The night wound down to whispers and it was time to go home. A few people would be staying at the River Run Saloon. TT was too drunk to drive back to Oakland as he’d planed. Robert guaranteed him a spot in their extra room.

 

It would have been rude to leave quietly. His footing was faulty and he nearly fell to the floor and Barbara ran to him. “Folks, folks!” Robert began in his most earnest and deep voice. “Barbara and I are about to get out of here.” He looked around, clutching his glass. “But I wanted to say! I wanted to say first… First, I want you all to know how much I love Gary. Any a you don’t got a place to stay tonight are welcome at my house, an’ if you come… If you come, you’re gonna see how Gary helped me build my house. He stayed up late every night, while we still lived in Oakland, he’d be up lookin’ at our land, trying to figure out how all of our dreams were gonna come true with the wood I cut. Our house was just piles of wood for as long as you can see. Barbara drew up some plans, but it was Gary that laid the foundation. Gary sat on my porch night after night, helping me with the finishing touches of my house. And tonight,” his voice was low, “I’ma go home with Barbara, and Gary ain’t gonna be there.” The trickle down his face was genuine, but Barbara heard in his words an indictment and a sentence. How had she never felt this guilt before? Tears sprang from her eyes and she rushed to cover her mouth, but the sob had already broken free, unveiling a chain reaction. For the first time in hours she left Robert’s side, choking on the moonlight, as she watched the river move.

 

In the valley, the light peeked in the windows far before the sun shone in the sky. The same as it always did. TT was sleeping off the night in Robert’s shed. The finches in the trees above cackled quietly among themselves. Barbara lay on her back next to Robert who was still curled up on the edge of the bed. The silhouettes of the forest around them looked more ominous than cozy. Barbara wondered at the ominous feeling. She imagined worse fates than Gary’s death befalling her and the town and Robert until she could no longer lie still. Moving swiftly from the bed to the door to the porch, she lit a cigarette and held it between her fingers, watching the smoke drift into ether. When finally she inhaled, her attempt at mimicking the fine plumes drafting up resulted in a cough which she quickly muffled.

Barbara had worked as a nurse in emergency rooms for her entire adult life. The death of her brother brought her to medicine. In the middle of her second year as an emergency room nurse, she stopped counting the women and men she had seen die. Gary’s death reminded her of the pain of birth and the ease of death. Life is a cloud, constantly forming and shaping according to the wind and its contents. Or so she’d grown to believe. She had stayed so close to Robert last night, unsure of her every move, her every breath. Life became a fog the moment she looked at him in admiration.

 

For the next week, she would try desperately to look only at Robert. But when he was in town or in the shed, she would close her eyes, and count her heart beats until and Gary’s face would come into focus. She had wanted to throw herself into the ground next to him. The wind blew dust down the road, and she thought now how funny it was, how impractical it would have been had she flung herself onto his casket like some forlorn auntie. If she had learned anything in her life, it was that she must always be practical with her decisions and wise in their undertaking.

She had continued to meet with Gary because it seemed wise at the time to follow her heart to him. By the time she’d thought of the impossibility of the situation, it was too late. Wisdom told her that no amount of distance would be far enough from Gary. She almost hated him and his blithe acceptance of whatever it was they were doing. Robert would have demanded a firm outline. It was what she loved about him the most. He always did everything right the first time he did it. He asked her on a proper date when they first met and one year later, when he knew that housing was in place, he proposed. They really did live a humble and hard-working and beautiful life.
She began to wander down the road and continued to think, almost saying aloud, “Gary never proposed a damn thing, other than a late afternoon drink or a walk to the river…always kept us close enough to Robert so as to not be disrespectful. He did things right too, I suppose…” she laughed and lit a cigarette and looked coyly away from the trees which conjured the afternoon she’d opted for whiskey instead of wine and pursued a kiss just a few steps from her door. Gary backed away gracefully and laughed it off.

After the funeral and Robert’s speech, everything seemed so impractical. She tried to resume daily life, but she just didn’t know how and Robert didn’t seem interested. She took to drinking in her studio while he drank in his shed, both rooms coated in uneven layers of dust. She thought to turn back, to paint the trees as she’d seen them on the way to the funeral. She decided instead to run as fast as she could, to blur the images or to make her eyes water. The cigarette dropped from her fingers as she began to trot, then sprint all the way down to the beach break on the river. Out of breath, she lay squatted down on a giant beige boulder partially submerged in the water. She lay baking in the sun, suddenly aware that she was not alone. Turning her head softly to the right, she found herself face to face with a fat long snake, with black and red rings around its shining body. She knew next to nothing about snakes and didn’t know what to do next, so she lay perfectly still, not even moving her eyes away from the serpent’s. It inched cautiously closer, allowing its forked gray tongue to flicker a quick inquiry into the bright bulbs and dark brown flesh in front of it. The snake slithered closer until it was moving along her tingling arms and across her belly, which encouraged a warmth to grow and spread from her center, through her womb, making her moist and breathless. She twitched involuntarily and the reptile slid rapidly to the other side of her body, down into a crevice close by.

The sun continued to move across the sky, but still was far from hiding behind the gray pines. Her skin was burning. She stood and dove perfectly into the slick of the river, swimming beneath the slow current until she could no longer hold her breath. She gasped when she reached the surface and dove down again, eyes wide open, acknowledging the specks of silt or gold which seemed to pause themselves in the moving river. The mud and the shale and perfectly rounded rocks; everything one uneven layer upon another. She rose and dove again until she found herself near the back of the saloon.

She tread water for a long time, looking up the cliff full of moss and jagged rocks, bright pink fuchsia and thyme, orange poppies standing in a motley line, all arranging themselves up the hill stopping just before the manicured path which led to the back steps and the porch where Gary had collapsed. She whispered his name to the rocks, to the water moving now more rapidly toward the west. What else was there to do? She dove down once more and screamed as loud as the water would allow. At the surface there were only bubbles and ripples; crows flew from their high perches while trout scuttled away from the wild figure thrashing and diving and choking on sound.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: