hells_half_acre (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hells_half_acre) wrote2010-05-25 10:41 pm
hells_half_acre) wrote2010-05-25 10:41 pm
Entry tags:
White Dragons
Hi, it's been a while.
Sorry about the long absence. I've been settling into Vancouver and going through my regular content and discontent phases. I've been writing, but just haven't been in the sharing mood that much.
Here's something weird I wrote:
White Dragons
There was a cool breeze that meandered its way through the trees. The pine needles had long since killed off the underbrush and the breeze easily carried the sounds of laughter from the families on the water. I wondered if it had been a horrible idea to pick this spot.
“Do you think we’ve lost our morals?” I asked instead. I stood upright and rested on my shovel for a moment, letting the breeze cool the sweat that made my shirt cling uncomfortably to my back.
You laughed along with the children in the canoes down on the lake. For a moment it was as though you were in on a joke together – though the wind mercifully carried your deep chuckle away from the young ears below. I hadn’t been joking, but perhaps I had only used the question as an excuse to stop digging. I got back to work for fear of being so accused.
“Do you remember when you were a kid?” you asked me, though, unlike me, it didn’t interrupt the steady rhythm of your shovelling. There was no need to answer aloud – of course I did. You continued, “I took you canoeing.”
“Yes,” I said, “more than once.” You stopped long ago. They felt like memories from a different life - memories from someone who was no longer me.
“Do you remember that time we saw that piece of driftwood and you thought it looked like a dragon?” you asked, and then you did pause, but only momentarily to wait for my answer.
Of course I remembered the driftwood. The white dragon had risen out of the water like a creature from fairytales. You had canoed closer and I had tried to hide my fear. We passed by it unharmed and camped on an island. I watched the white dragon circle us for two days. Somehow in those two days, it shifted from a terrifying force of nature to a comforting companion. On the third day there was a storm and you had told me without remorse that the storm would pull the driftwood under the water, would push it mercilessly onto the shore where it would become just like all the other detritus – unrecognizable and overlooked. I didn’t think it was possible for a storm to destroy my white dragon, but in the morning it wasn’t there. We never mentioned it again, through I craned my neck as we canoed home, looking up and down the lake in false hope.
“I remember,” I replied, leaning on my shovel once again, relishing the cool breeze and the fading laughter of the children as they moved further up the lake.
“Morals are just like that,” you said, then stabbed your shovel back into the dirt, as though that answered everything.
I looked down the hill towards the water instead of asking more.
“Are you going to help me bury this body, or are you just going to stand there all day?” you asked.
“Right, sorry” I replied.
Sorry about the long absence. I've been settling into Vancouver and going through my regular content and discontent phases. I've been writing, but just haven't been in the sharing mood that much.
Here's something weird I wrote:
White Dragons
There was a cool breeze that meandered its way through the trees. The pine needles had long since killed off the underbrush and the breeze easily carried the sounds of laughter from the families on the water. I wondered if it had been a horrible idea to pick this spot.
“Do you think we’ve lost our morals?” I asked instead. I stood upright and rested on my shovel for a moment, letting the breeze cool the sweat that made my shirt cling uncomfortably to my back.
You laughed along with the children in the canoes down on the lake. For a moment it was as though you were in on a joke together – though the wind mercifully carried your deep chuckle away from the young ears below. I hadn’t been joking, but perhaps I had only used the question as an excuse to stop digging. I got back to work for fear of being so accused.
“Do you remember when you were a kid?” you asked me, though, unlike me, it didn’t interrupt the steady rhythm of your shovelling. There was no need to answer aloud – of course I did. You continued, “I took you canoeing.”
“Yes,” I said, “more than once.” You stopped long ago. They felt like memories from a different life - memories from someone who was no longer me.
“Do you remember that time we saw that piece of driftwood and you thought it looked like a dragon?” you asked, and then you did pause, but only momentarily to wait for my answer.
Of course I remembered the driftwood. The white dragon had risen out of the water like a creature from fairytales. You had canoed closer and I had tried to hide my fear. We passed by it unharmed and camped on an island. I watched the white dragon circle us for two days. Somehow in those two days, it shifted from a terrifying force of nature to a comforting companion. On the third day there was a storm and you had told me without remorse that the storm would pull the driftwood under the water, would push it mercilessly onto the shore where it would become just like all the other detritus – unrecognizable and overlooked. I didn’t think it was possible for a storm to destroy my white dragon, but in the morning it wasn’t there. We never mentioned it again, through I craned my neck as we canoed home, looking up and down the lake in false hope.
“I remember,” I replied, leaning on my shovel once again, relishing the cool breeze and the fading laughter of the children as they moved further up the lake.
“Morals are just like that,” you said, then stabbed your shovel back into the dirt, as though that answered everything.
I looked down the hill towards the water instead of asking more.
“Are you going to help me bury this body, or are you just going to stand there all day?” you asked.
“Right, sorry” I replied.