The song of insects itched in the trees. The summer heat hung motionless. Like the moment between breaths. The sandy soil was the Earth's lungs, and the sun's rays, the blood's flow and ebb.
I wanted to sit and sleep in the steam. I wanted to rock on a porch and feel the seconds melt in soft beads of sweat. Running one at a time. One long trail at a time.
Why are there so many ghosts in the Spanish Moss? Why do so many walk in slithering heat along blacktop roads?
It can't just be me sitting in the shade.
It can't just be me in the June, or July, or August drifting days.
I imagine so many souls who could walk there. As the grass doesn't sway.
And probably often do.
15 comments:
I see a human shadow on the fence.
Awesome first line!
ooh, kind of eerie photo. And I see that shadow too JR.
Reminds me of yesterday's walk with Lana at the Nature preserve. Cicadas in the trees. dragonflies everywhere.
Very cool. I liked this quite a bit.
This makes me think of the world stopping in that one moment, and wondering how many moments passed before that one?
Excellent. :)
it's interesting how summer brings out restlessness and a need to stay still at the same time.
wonderful description here and the photo is great.
in the photo i do not see any ghost, but the ambiguity is there.
Forgotten roads are real treasures, Jason. Anyone who has trodden one knows that to be true. Instinctively. Thanks for bringing one such path to life so beautifully.
JR, now that you mention it....
Terri, I love first lines. I like them to be really strong.
Tabitha, I really like the effect I applied to the photo. It looks like a pastel drawing to me. Or maybe an oil painting.
Charles, sounds like you've been there.
Onipar, thanks! Always cool to see a comment from an old friend.
Oddyoddyo13, and it's like all those moments somehow co-exist. As if you can slip between them.
Szelsofa, so true. I was feeling that way again as I delved into this picture and the summer heat.
Bhaswati, I can sense your understanding. You've walked those roads too.
It makes me feel like time as stopped and the writer is caught in that place and time... when is the time, feels old to me... of a time forgotten. Cool Jason!
Dottie :)
Spanish moss is the stuff of ghosts. It supposedly originated from a witch's hair, as a reminder of the crime committed against her.
And the sound of cicadas is loud enough to be deafening, and one can imagine that all sorts of beings are watching, unheard, because their movements are silent when compared to the noise.
A lot of images arise from this. Very vivid.
Excellent. Loved it.
Spanish moss is how I knew I was within ten miles of home on the 500 mile Christmas time migration from college.
I love it. It's sexy, sensual, Southern gothic at it's finest. I'm currently surrounded by it on the Georgia coast.
This piece describes my identity, the summers of my childhood and those of my forefathers.
Dottie, that's a great way to describe it! It does feel like that. Old and present at same time.
Shakespeare, your images are just as vivid, if not more. And thanks for sharing that legend about Spanish Moss! I hadn't heard that before.
Akasha, thanks!
Laurel, your last line was especially poignant. It's strangely comforting to know that someone raised there becomes imbued with this spirit.
beautiful ... now everyone has me looking for the shadow!
:-)
Post a Comment