Ice thunked as I lowered the empty glass from my mouth, the raspy liquid snaking down my throat. Behind me Robert Johnson’s voice slithered out the cabin door singing about shrimp but not really about shrimp, both of us wallowing low, low, low in the wetlands. Both of us thrown out like troublesome trash.
The full moon was rising, casting a shine on the water, casting a spell on me. Cypress trees hulked in their super power, long gnarled fingers sunken into the brackish bottom, waiting patiently, so patiently. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?
It felt like entering a womb; warm, languid, swaddling. Your white dress ballooning like a ghostly Datura, your hair a raft of floating silk, my fingers woven in its strands, my lips mouthing your succulent, secret name…
A little Flash Fiction written for dVerse Poets Pub’s Prosery Monday prompt. We were challenged to write a prose piece under 144 words incorporating a line from “The Wasteland” by T.S. Eliot: “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”
Below is a recording of Robert Johnson singing “Dead Shrimp Blues” which also inspired my little piece. Enjoy!