The Electorate v The Sunset

The Frenchman was out of place in his new home next to the Cady Marsh Ditch. It was a rental, shared with his wife of two years. She wanted a garden. He wanted a dog. Pat, the electrician who lived across the street, was friendly, even though he was a Redneck’s Redneck, who didn’t care for his niece’s names for the cattle he raised. “They’re all Tee Bones and Sir Loin to me!” he declared.

The human frog learned to expect the chorus of frogs coming from the Cady Marsh, even if he never loved it. Parisian to the core, the antics of the politicians were much more fascinating to him than the cricket choir; the cycles of the leanings of the electorate more noteworthy than the canvas of the sky at sunset; experimentation with new varieties of over-ripe Camembert prioritized over those of fresh green beans.

Murderer’s Lament

The water opened in front of me. Ripples at the edge of the lake transitioned into sun-speckled wavelets. I bent down to feel the coolness, and brought my cupped hands to my face.

A small silver dart exited the brown forest of underwater plants. PinkĀ  granite and grey feldspar protruded from the sand, carrying memories of their faraway origins.

I lifted my head. A wall of late-summer-green leaves edged the far shore, framing the emptiness of the water’s surface. A few cottages, white, turquoise, lilac and pink, punctuated the living barrier. I silently thanked the houses’ inhabitants for their contribution to what would become my lasting vision of tranquility.

It had been years since I had seen so clearly. The memory of this last moment of quiet freedom has played over and over again in the cinema of my mind, as I knew it would, long after the small fish forgot all about the looming shadow that briefly darkened its way.