odd walking thoughts – time

The brook rambled on. Pushing forward, begging the boy to continue. The boy wanted to adventure further. Though the sun had started to dip just below the tree line, he wasn’t afraid. He wondered if he had enough time. The boy listened to a voice whisper from above. ‘If we placed time into a bucket with water and soap, what do you believe might happen to the bubbles? Two options. The bubbles would become gone instantaneously because time would have run out. Or, the bubbles would last forever because time granted it so.’ The boy didn’t move. Heart pounding thinking of time. ‘What if I move now? What will happen?’  -M. Taggart copyright 2017

Odd Walking Thoughts

Walk in the woods. Hug an anything. Don’t read the news. Have a beer. Whiskey, fish, work hard, tell someone they look good with their beard, tell another they look good without. Isn’t it easy when we let it be. Sit in your favorite spot and tell your mind no, then yes, because it’s finally time to read. Tell the ones telling, no. You know the no I write of. You created it and it’s waiting to be used. It’s not all metal sheep. It’s only partially all with which we’ve created- a portion of the sheep. But never, listen, to, the, sheep. Tell a thing it isn’t.

**

-M. Taggart

Gone Fishing – Flash Fiction

The birds chirped. It was 4:07 AM. He knew his grandfather was up and double checking their fishing gear. Rods, life vests, water, tackle, bait, and extra gas. He could see in his mind his grandfather’s large hands patting each item as he checked them off. He’d wear a slightly grim look, almost worrisome, but when done his face would relax.

The sheets were warm where he lay. He stretched his legs and let one foot breach and enter the morning air. He liked the crisp feeling. It felt as though his foot was detached from his body. He pushed the blankets off. He could smell coffee and bacon. Soon eggs would be frying and they would eat a good breakfast. Then, they would take the drive to the lake, put the boat in the water, and fish until noon.

-M. Taggart

 

Daily Prompt: Fishing Up North

via Daily Prompt: Fishing

There was a constant wind blowing from the south. The wind drove itself into the mountain range on the opposite side of the lake. He had taken the canoe to the farthest southern corner of the lake. There, the canopy of evergreens block the wind. The water was smooth.

The lake was nice and cool. The native trout were active. He watched them rise, leaving small rings. There was only the sound of the wind reaching, and swiveling away from the soft branches of the evergreens.

Raising his arm, the fly line became active and arched beautifully through the air. He’d seen a riser just ten yards in front of the canoe. He landed the fly just inside the outer portion of the ring.

Immediately his line became taught, his rod bent in half. He could feel every movement the large trout made. It fought severely. The fly snapped back into the air, and flew toward the canoe. The fish was gone.

He could still feel the vibrant activity in his hands, arms, and mostly his mind. He lay the rod down, letting the fly line drift on the water. He wanted to remember the feeling of the strike. And he wanted to remember the feeling of his failure. He reached into the inner pocket of his wool coat and found the half-smoked cigar.

He liked that a cigar lit hard after having been smoked and let to die out. He needed to cover the cigar from the wind and point it down to warm it sufficiently before trying to smoke it. If the smoke from the cigar didn’t travel fully through, he’d need to start over. After the third try his thumb would be slightly burned. If the wind was too heavy the cigar couldn’t be lit. He’d be left with a smoldering cigar and burned thumb. But, if the cigar was lit, he would enjoy the feeling of the smoke. He’d watch the swirls leave his mouth and range wildly around his face. No one arrangement of smoke was the same. Thinking about this made him ache with warmth.

-M. Taggart

(photo taken by me while fishing.)

 

An Early Morning – Flash Fiction

Outside was damp and the sun wasn’t yet up. He could hear a few of the men walking toward the lake, heading out early. He listened as the leaves were crushed underfoot. The smell of butter melting on the iron skillet filled him with a moment of joy because the eggs were now blistering in places and the slices of steak were browning. He used his knife to drop more butter in and placed muffins, face down, in between the eggs and steak. Using a towel, he gripped the skillet handle and tipped it first toward him and then away to let the grease mix with the butter and drain under the muffins and collect on the sides of them in the places where the grease and butter could not go underneath.

Soon he would wake the boy and they would eat. And then they would be the ones crushing leaves underfoot.