The lake is black, lifeless. Though a chilling wind stirs thru the trees tops, no wake is visible on it’s silky surface. From a distant corner the light of a hundred cabins mow over every inch of clearing and not one peering, penatrating the onyx slick of death that is its covering. The lake is black.
His hand is bruised, painful. From a fight not wanted when in all efforts the confrontation diswayed, his own and friends dismayed here at the lake now sitting, fitting is the sear and bones may slightly broken be the fist that could have stopped him, should have. Would have were the worries might more than the anger of the night. His hand is bruised.
And of that wind. That terrible pounding. That calling, that coy calm unsounding. That in the night and on the mourning turning, taming, trembling gust that of it blast each symbol ever if only just to say hello. The wind, and of it I give a message. Sent to you the reader. Sent to you the soulful. Sent be heard, the wish to make a word turn into fire. Sent on winged wind from where a lion becomes a lier. That of the wind.
All this now, he sits and sees. There the water faking. All this in his mind the seas of making turn to shaking. On a thought he stands, uncertain returns to thier cabin. He knows that not more will make a decision less from happening.
His friend is dead, or at least the last he saw him.. If he ever did. His foe the lake, the one that from it spang, the words he spoke and with a face of terror fought to change.
Categories: Matthew Newton