There is always an excuse for not writing. Last week we traveled out of state on a vacation. Finding time to write was harder than normal, but it wasn’t harder than I expected. The writing was unsurprisingly useless, so I am throwing it away. For the first time in 1000 Days history I’m taking crap writing and I’m pitching it.
As a matter of full disclosure I should note that there are more days in the last gap where I didn’t even try to write than there are days where I wrote and I’m throwing it out. I wouldn’t want you to think things had changed much around here. Tomorrow I’ll work out the date for day 1000; today I need to get to writing.
Evening came quickly to the Tall Rock River, but it lasted for hours. Bale admired the shadowed jungle rising out of the water a hundred feet or more. The canyon’s rim might have even been another hundred higher than it looked from where he poled his flat-bottomed boat; the slope tricked the eye. The deep, black water remained placid for miles between his home and [his destination], but it shallowed in two places. The first—an hour into his journey—from a long-ago slide that created a broad clumsy waterfall. And the second, just ahead. He passed the portage so he could slide out of the day-long shadow and into the golden beams of sunset where a westerly branch of the canyon allowed one last peak of the sun. [trying too hard here]
Let’s just get this mess posted.
256 words on day 970
I haven’t done a water study in a while. Feels like a good morning for a bunch of unconnected sketches.
The finger of water roved over the hard packed dirt like an ant scout looking for the lowest path. In places it paused for orders—or more volume—then ranged forward enthusiastically.
The refraction of the plexiglass merged effortlessly with that of the water. Not only did this bulldozer-sized vat of water defy sharp focus it also held a sand shark.
Yesterday the dr fence boards felt like hundreds of razor blades packed tightly—unable to cut, but still unappealing to the touch. Today, wet with rain, they feel like damp hard sponges.
Water lay below us. Rain fell on the land. The land soaked the rain in. The wetness sank through the sand, the soil, the clay, and the rock. It collected slowly and deeply like the thoughts of a god in the subterranean spaces. Soon, our well would uncover It’s thoughts.
Wet soles. Wet surface. Broken wrist.
Four inches of rain turned my unmown Gulf Texas lawn into a marshland. Two more into a residential lake. “Ah shit. There go the tomatoes.”
“It’s a fountain. Not magic,” she reassured him. “The walkway is a grate and hidden jets spurt water as you walk by.”
A gray mass of atomized water rose from the lower end of the valley. Tendrils wriggled in the cattails at its fringe. A graceful and subtle heave swelled at its center then receded less than it had grown. This misty bellows engulfed the low-down reeds, the edge-of-the-meadow aspens, and finally the way-back-in-the-woods pines.
Xannajhandra-tha drifted nearer the surface.
The vent-heated lake warmed his naked body and gave his mind comfort. Inside the water he felt purposeful and distinct. He allowed his tail to uncoil and sink into the hotter layers nearer this last vent on the downstream end of the lake. As it dropped his awareness of place increased. The heat differential between his head and tail fed a sense he couldn’t feel outside–on the ground. For Xannajhandra-tha the contrast made decisions easier. He wanted to have one last memory from one final facile decision.
He lulled to one side and pushed the opposite eye outside into the cold air. The surface tension tickled at the base of his eye as he lightly bobbed in the still water.
Outside, the lake steamed. Very few fliers and no walkers would be able to see him depart the safety of the water. He slipped out making no more noise than necessary and none that wouldn’t be mistaken for the sound of the lake water overflowing into the stream nearby.
Next, he changed shape.
Word count: 185