Rivulets of lukewarm street water and ammonia forged traveled amongst the aging cobblestones of one long-abandoned road. Serpentine in nature, the stench of the liquid felt particularly venomous. Veins of liquid from the main artery paused before the various diversions in the cobblestones ahead like a young creature standing for the first time before deep waters. The water cascaded through a jagged diagonal crack to the left of a well-worn, rounded stone. Surely, this path would provide the quickest route to nowhere, its principal destination. Our destination. Theirs, too.
The slovenly alternative was comparitively dismal. Rain water and urine settled in the waterlogged indentation of a passerby's boot in the mud to the right. Hope for this common fossil's memory vanished as the final millimeters of its depth were overcome by the rushing solution's volume and oder. Against its will, the print had thus been transformed into a perfectly unbroken planar reflection.
If standing enough askance, one might have gazed into the reflection in order to observe the mercurial clouds looming overhead.
_________________________________________________________
He felt disconcerted by watching the sky while staring at the ground. He knew he had become habituated to this ritualistic obscurity. Only the smell of diluted ammonia beneath his feet provided the olfactory pinch reminding him that he was aware. A man with little left, he strove to avoid eye contact with anyone. His senses alone had bestowed sense and sensibility unto him over the years, but sight - this lone sense was, to him, a distressing disruption to his day. Eyes and sight were dually bound and reserved for exceptional and momentous occasions, as one might reserve a special tie, suit and smile for appearances at public masses on Sundays. On this day, he allowed his eyes to imbibe the blackened and furrowed clouds that scrutinized him from infinity above and resbelow through the reflection in the Earth. Their presence was poignant against the slate gray and judgmental heavens.
An unearthly sharpening of self-awareness forced him to avert his gaze from the simple puddle. It was now frothing with wet earth and a saturated, disagreeable stench. He continued navigating amorphous oceans of cobblestones ahead with deliberation and difficulty. The sea was his destination and he knew that he was very near to it. The air had become saturated with sea salt and peculiar odors of chum. This suffocating atmosphere engulfed his very being. It smothered spirits with the viscosity of thick mucous. Like a parched and shriveled piece of fruit, once ripe and vibrant, his senses had clearly failed him. Forging through the fog made him feel evermore like worthless marmalade - canned efficiently and stored on the dusty shelves of an irrelevant lifetime.
As man challenged nature on the ground, leaden clouds had been pressing more firmly into the earth. Through the dim light he recognized scores of naked trees beckoning him into their bushy undergrowths with gnarled branches resembling fingers on a corpse. Feet waterlogged and frozen, only the unforgiving breath of impending Winter continued to propel him. Winter forced the long-forgotten generator deep within himself to churn. Its rusted gears ground against one another with desperate ferocity and released hot sparks of hopelessness.
Meanwhile, the smell of ammonia had receded. He could not be sure whether the nebulous density of the fog was environmental or if it were an additional reflection of his internal state. He yearned for peace, for he had not felt (nor had allowed himself to feel) the liberating sensation albeit once, several weeks before, when he intently watched the most resilient leaf fall from his favorite Elm tree, leaving behind a remarkably skeletal memorial of Autumn.
His unusually black eyes - "Gypsy eyes," as the uncouth and uneducated villagers had so often referred to them - had followed that leaf from its perch on the highest branch of the Elm. Its soft repose on the dry and brittle dirt below had been graceful. And he had pocketed the leaf. This leaf, and all that its death represented, was his private correspondent. He would emulate its final ballet in due time.
The fog waxed, then waned. Everything around him breathed in and, after a moment's pause, exhaled. He had reached the sea. Wicked whorls of icy water battered vehemently against jagged rocks below weathered wooden planks of the dock on which he now stood. The aging dock groaned like ancient trees in the midst of violent winds, and sea-foam oozed through the rotting and misshapen slats like pus from an infected limb. Yellowed foam whipped about the air, smearing itself across his finely-tailored overcoat and face. He pretended not to notice; he'd neglected to shave that day, anyway. Death favors neither beauty nor desolation.
To gaze into the Great Reflection was to be stabbed in the belly, but he allowed himself ample time to drink in the awesome sight. He stood before a greater puddle by which infinity was, and had always been, reflected. Reassessing the charcoal clouds reminded him of the capricious magistrate he believed to be observing him sternly from the Heavens above. He fidgeted nervously. He fondled four hefty and precious slabs of concrete he had pilfered from an emaciated cemetery earlier that day. He had gone to great lengths to conceal them in the deepest recesses of his overcoat. He trained his eyes towards a flock of gray speckled gulls hovering well above the angry waters enacting retribution against the abused and jagged rocks. The gulls were searching for the last remaining morsels of sustenance before Winter truly struck. "Ever searching," he whispered to himself.
He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and took a small step forward, swiftly disappearing beneath the reflective surface. The pungent fragrance of ammonia had finally reached the dock, but only speckled gulls were left to take note of its presence. Ocean wind raped the shoreline of its serenity.
As if governed by one mind, the gulls ceased to circle the sky, and they came to a unanimous halt on the dock's edge. They watched with rigid curiosity peculiar bubbles gently breaking the Reflection's stormy surface. A small leaf ascended from the muddied depths, pausing for a moment on the whitened crest of an ocean wave. The ocean inhaled for the final time, and the brutal undertow ravenously consumed the nostalgic frailty of Autumn.
Winter had come. Frenzied with hunger and frightened by the churning water, the gulls dispersed in unison.
The slovenly alternative was comparitively dismal. Rain water and urine settled in the waterlogged indentation of a passerby's boot in the mud to the right. Hope for this common fossil's memory vanished as the final millimeters of its depth were overcome by the rushing solution's volume and oder. Against its will, the print had thus been transformed into a perfectly unbroken planar reflection.
If standing enough askance, one might have gazed into the reflection in order to observe the mercurial clouds looming overhead.
_________________________________________________________
He felt disconcerted by watching the sky while staring at the ground. He knew he had become habituated to this ritualistic obscurity. Only the smell of diluted ammonia beneath his feet provided the olfactory pinch reminding him that he was aware. A man with little left, he strove to avoid eye contact with anyone. His senses alone had bestowed sense and sensibility unto him over the years, but sight - this lone sense was, to him, a distressing disruption to his day. Eyes and sight were dually bound and reserved for exceptional and momentous occasions, as one might reserve a special tie, suit and smile for appearances at public masses on Sundays. On this day, he allowed his eyes to imbibe the blackened and furrowed clouds that scrutinized him from infinity above and resbelow through the reflection in the Earth. Their presence was poignant against the slate gray and judgmental heavens.
An unearthly sharpening of self-awareness forced him to avert his gaze from the simple puddle. It was now frothing with wet earth and a saturated, disagreeable stench. He continued navigating amorphous oceans of cobblestones ahead with deliberation and difficulty. The sea was his destination and he knew that he was very near to it. The air had become saturated with sea salt and peculiar odors of chum. This suffocating atmosphere engulfed his very being. It smothered spirits with the viscosity of thick mucous. Like a parched and shriveled piece of fruit, once ripe and vibrant, his senses had clearly failed him. Forging through the fog made him feel evermore like worthless marmalade - canned efficiently and stored on the dusty shelves of an irrelevant lifetime.
As man challenged nature on the ground, leaden clouds had been pressing more firmly into the earth. Through the dim light he recognized scores of naked trees beckoning him into their bushy undergrowths with gnarled branches resembling fingers on a corpse. Feet waterlogged and frozen, only the unforgiving breath of impending Winter continued to propel him. Winter forced the long-forgotten generator deep within himself to churn. Its rusted gears ground against one another with desperate ferocity and released hot sparks of hopelessness.
Meanwhile, the smell of ammonia had receded. He could not be sure whether the nebulous density of the fog was environmental or if it were an additional reflection of his internal state. He yearned for peace, for he had not felt (nor had allowed himself to feel) the liberating sensation albeit once, several weeks before, when he intently watched the most resilient leaf fall from his favorite Elm tree, leaving behind a remarkably skeletal memorial of Autumn.
His unusually black eyes - "Gypsy eyes," as the uncouth and uneducated villagers had so often referred to them - had followed that leaf from its perch on the highest branch of the Elm. Its soft repose on the dry and brittle dirt below had been graceful. And he had pocketed the leaf. This leaf, and all that its death represented, was his private correspondent. He would emulate its final ballet in due time.
The fog waxed, then waned. Everything around him breathed in and, after a moment's pause, exhaled. He had reached the sea. Wicked whorls of icy water battered vehemently against jagged rocks below weathered wooden planks of the dock on which he now stood. The aging dock groaned like ancient trees in the midst of violent winds, and sea-foam oozed through the rotting and misshapen slats like pus from an infected limb. Yellowed foam whipped about the air, smearing itself across his finely-tailored overcoat and face. He pretended not to notice; he'd neglected to shave that day, anyway. Death favors neither beauty nor desolation.
To gaze into the Great Reflection was to be stabbed in the belly, but he allowed himself ample time to drink in the awesome sight. He stood before a greater puddle by which infinity was, and had always been, reflected. Reassessing the charcoal clouds reminded him of the capricious magistrate he believed to be observing him sternly from the Heavens above. He fidgeted nervously. He fondled four hefty and precious slabs of concrete he had pilfered from an emaciated cemetery earlier that day. He had gone to great lengths to conceal them in the deepest recesses of his overcoat. He trained his eyes towards a flock of gray speckled gulls hovering well above the angry waters enacting retribution against the abused and jagged rocks. The gulls were searching for the last remaining morsels of sustenance before Winter truly struck. "Ever searching," he whispered to himself.
He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and took a small step forward, swiftly disappearing beneath the reflective surface. The pungent fragrance of ammonia had finally reached the dock, but only speckled gulls were left to take note of its presence. Ocean wind raped the shoreline of its serenity.
As if governed by one mind, the gulls ceased to circle the sky, and they came to a unanimous halt on the dock's edge. They watched with rigid curiosity peculiar bubbles gently breaking the Reflection's stormy surface. A small leaf ascended from the muddied depths, pausing for a moment on the whitened crest of an ocean wave. The ocean inhaled for the final time, and the brutal undertow ravenously consumed the nostalgic frailty of Autumn.
Winter had come. Frenzied with hunger and frightened by the churning water, the gulls dispersed in unison.