The boat was empty, except for one lone fish

The fish flopped about for a few seconds. Then it flapped about for a few seconds. Then it flopped and flapped about for a few seconds more. It lifted its head slightly, making that gulping fishy type gulping thing that fish do, as if it was making one lust gasp to fill its lungs with air. This, of course, is nonsense, well, partly. Fish don’t have lungs, although, unbeknownst to most folk, it was trying to breathe. If a fish has trouble breathing due to a lack of dissolved oxygen in water due to there being a deficiency of aeration or poor water quality, it will rise to the surface and gulp and gasp for air. I only know this as when I was a child I had tropical fish given to me by a co-worker of my mother, his name escapes me at the moment, I think it may have been Steve Something, although I can’t be sure. He gave me all that was needed, a tank, that looked a bit like a giant lava lamp, a heater, food and a variety of tropical fish, although after a few months all I seemed to have was a tank full of guppies and snails.

Anyway, I digress, the particular fish in question, that was lying in the bottom of the boat was, you see, trying to breathe, through its mouth. Fruitlessly, of course, as it would still need to get itself into water to survive and breathe properly. Besides. A few seconds later, it had stopped flopping and flapping and gulping and gasping for air through its mouth as it was dead. Not because it had finally succumbed to the lack of oxygen flowing through its vascular system, but because it had been ripped in half by two herring gulls and was now split between the stomachs of said birds.

Prompted by this page

Jan 9th – Swept away by the wind, her hair looked a mess.

12.30-12.40

In contrast, her head looked amazing.

If she was wearing a wig, it would have been more understandable. Not strictly her hair, of course, but a close approximation of it, and that’s how she probably would have seen it, her hair, if she had been wearing a wig. But she wasn’t. It was her hair.

A sudden gust of wind. One of those that comes from nowhere, and reminds you that nature is a force, not to be reckoned with, but to really not bother struggling against at all. Nature, after all, does what it wants. It’s in its nature.

It was a bright day. One of those days that makes you wish you had some sunglasses somewhere, tucked away, just in case. Not sunny, as such, but bright, a white bright through high clouds, and warm enough to make the coat you thought you should wear unnecessary. Her coat was over her arm when the gust came, and she clamped it to her side to keep it there. Which is where it stayed.

The same, however, cannot be said for her hair.

Unprecedented, they called it.

The wind came, from behind, blowing her auburn hair, worn long, around the sides of her face. She was more concerned about her coat. And then, painlessly, almost in slow motion, her hair was gone.

A simple fact. Her hair was blown away.

All of it, gone, in one gust, one flutter. One second it was where it had always been, on top of her head, the next it was caught on the wind and was alive, twisting, tumbling, growing wings. Twenty, thirty, fifty yards away, rising and falling to the call of the air, spreading and compacting like the tentacles of a terrible jellyfish.

She put her hand to her head, forgetting all about the coat she had instinctively saved, letting it fall to the ground. Her scalp was cool and smooth to the touch. She tried to scream, but in that instant it was as if the wind had stolen her voice as well, leaving her soundless.

She could still see her hair at the edge of the field she had been crossing, caught up in a barbed wire fence, there to keep the summer sheep in. She ran towards it, her coat still lying where it had fallen, one arm outstretched.

She wanted it back, her hair, tried to pull it from the wire it was tangled around. Swept away by the wind, her hair looked a mess.

Inspired by a prompt from here

One Lone Fish – Dead Deer

One Lone Fish

Waves gently lap against the side of the stationary boat. The kind sound of the water, the insistent screech of the gulls, other boats passing by. These noises of the dock reach me as if through a fog. They do not penetrate me, I do not, can not, consider them of relevance to me, nor I to them I would imagine, should I be inclined to. I am neither inclined or able to. The boat is silent, and all I hear is this silence.

This boat. We have travelled so far and for so long on it. A quarter of a century since first, excitedly, boarding it. Spartan on supplies to begin with, but buoyant with joy and expectation. Over time – moving from port to port, always forward, always new – we filled it up, with such precious items! The things we saw, the things we had, and finally the two greatest treasures of all, discovered six thousand miles apart. Glittering and astonishing these two items gave us fresh purpose, and they are what keep us now, entwined, neither of us could ever part from them. But we know; one day we must.

And then, and then, we dropped anchor in this God-forsaken port. What is it now? Seven, eight years? How do people who stand still know where they are? I never understood that. And now I see why. There is no surer way of getting lost than standing still. And now the boat is empty, but I am not ready to leave it, not at all. The boat should be full and rushing along, there is a fair wind to be had, I am sure of it.

But for now here I lay. Cold, lost, unmoving and scared. A lone fish.

2018 Boats second time.jpg

Today I wrote from 11:25 to 11:35. I was prompted by idea “The boat was empty, except for one lone fishhere. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here