TheJacques
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CAMP SITE 42
“Time is on my side!” I roared atop the mountain of thundering purple majesty.
I remembered! I finally recalled without hesitation the sensation of eternal relief and unfettered starlight.
I was free of all emotional cost. Unzipping my behavior, I dove into the chilled, sun-lit creek water and swam my way through the currents, due west to Camp Site 42.
“Keep it up!” my mind said as I fished and finned my body up a steep rapid, raging upstream to make it back before sunset. "Keep it up!"
Arriving back on this shore, I hoisted myself into Farmer Ducket’s fishnet stockings. He used them by the knitted yard to catch fish people like me, your Storyteller, but I was not one to be caught. I was one to be let in.
Slinking my way into the caged, thorny, roped, fish-netted menagerie, I decided to build up a chuckle within my gills. It would grow and grow and burn ever brighter, and I would save it for Farmer Ducket’s face and heart when he would open the cage.
Hoisting me over his shoulder, we trudged through Snow Valley. This winter woodland was a temporary zone of iced wilderness before one entered the warm, amber compounds of Camp Site 42.
Farmer Ducket, a bearded gargantuan of sixty feet, trudged and tumbled his way through the blizzard passes and foggy glades of frozen emerald juice, constantly adjusting his the heavy cage and I on his sacked shoulder.
A skilled axe man and rural bard, Farmer Ducket made no enemy with the forest. Every cluster, bushel, shrub, patch, and blue-moon jasper wilted for a minute and then grew in colorful glory at the beck and call of his calloused, mighty fingers.
He stomped and plunged his boots against the raging blow of the cold and wound his way up the rusty-golden hue of the sunset world of Camp Site 42.
“Will you be requiring a taxi cab, sir?” a fresh-faced porter at the base of the mountain pointedly asked.
“Shall we serve you wine?” another porter asked.
“Chilled?” chimed a valet.
“How about a raincoat?” grinned a thin waiter.
“No, no, no, and no, no thank you. No.” Farmer Ducket stoutly replied.
“Welcome to Camp Site 42!” they all jeered jollily.
He hoisted his boots over their heads, careful not to squash any, and scaled the mountain which led to the heart of Camp Sire 42. Farmer Ducket eventually sat beside an empty carriage floundered on a white crystal shore of dusk and breeze.
He tumbled onto his bottom and sat the cage and me down on the largest pebble this shore had owned. His giant arms hugged around the floundered carriage and he wept aloud, rich with loving words for whispers of the past. His voice heaved with sighs of stinging remembrance, and his eyes flushed with the rivers of yesterday’s rain.
To me, it looked and sounded like opera.
He wiped his eyes and beard clean and propped up his guitar, giving it a strum as he peered down into the cage and winked at me, flashing a gapped grin.
“This one is for you, Paulette.”
He then stopped and snorted abruptly. Twitching his broken-capillary nose and blinking each eye twice individually, he scooped me out of the cage and tossed me into the water, spitting after me.
“N’g’yah’g’h!” he spattered. “T’ain’t none of no fish I ever seen!”
I stood up abruptly and held myself afloat in the sweeping shore, flapping my tail and tossing back my hair, baring my sea maiden identity to Farmer Ducket.
Yet, the behemoth man of nature shooed me away with his hands and shook his head vigorously with disgust.
“Why will you not look at me, my sapien!”
“F’yul’ch’och!” he spat again. “You’re not no creature to be looked at!”
“But I am Telesa,” I softly protested. “The mermaid! I’ve…I’ve come to be earth promised…by you.”
I then released the air of giggly promise and tittering praise from my coral gills, breathing my nautical gift upon the giant of my dreams. When I finished my display, I looked up at Farmer Ducket like a barnacle to a whale, full of hope.
“Mnhm,” he scratched his beard and began to turn his head. “You don’t scare me, witch fish woman. Hide yourself. Now! Don’t want you here. You’re out of bounds and don’t belong in Camp Site 42!”
He paused now. He cut off all air from his words and let his eyes wander to my glistening tail. They stayed there for a moment. My scales began to give way and now I stood as a total human woman, skinny legs and all.
Farmer Ducket sat on the biggest pebble and wept, cradling the empty fishnet-stocking cage to his heart.
I shivered. I had never experienced that. What did he see that horrified him so? What made him hate me so easily? What man of nature denies a woman of the sea?
Standing erectly, a black figure against the orange ambience, I stooped my face downward to the pooling river and saw my reflection.
I screamed. I did not stop until it was dark.
“Time is on my side!” I roared atop the mountain of thundering purple majesty.
I remembered! I finally recalled without hesitation the sensation of eternal relief and unfettered starlight.
I was free of all emotional cost. Unzipping my behavior, I dove into the chilled, sun-lit creek water and swam my way through the currents, due west to Camp Site 42.
“Keep it up!” my mind said as I fished and finned my body up a steep rapid, raging upstream to make it back before sunset. "Keep it up!"
Arriving back on this shore, I hoisted myself into Farmer Ducket’s fishnet stockings. He used them by the knitted yard to catch fish people like me, your Storyteller, but I was not one to be caught. I was one to be let in.
Slinking my way into the caged, thorny, roped, fish-netted menagerie, I decided to build up a chuckle within my gills. It would grow and grow and burn ever brighter, and I would save it for Farmer Ducket’s face and heart when he would open the cage.
Hoisting me over his shoulder, we trudged through Snow Valley. This winter woodland was a temporary zone of iced wilderness before one entered the warm, amber compounds of Camp Site 42.
Farmer Ducket, a bearded gargantuan of sixty feet, trudged and tumbled his way through the blizzard passes and foggy glades of frozen emerald juice, constantly adjusting his the heavy cage and I on his sacked shoulder.
A skilled axe man and rural bard, Farmer Ducket made no enemy with the forest. Every cluster, bushel, shrub, patch, and blue-moon jasper wilted for a minute and then grew in colorful glory at the beck and call of his calloused, mighty fingers.
He stomped and plunged his boots against the raging blow of the cold and wound his way up the rusty-golden hue of the sunset world of Camp Site 42.
“Will you be requiring a taxi cab, sir?” a fresh-faced porter at the base of the mountain pointedly asked.
“Shall we serve you wine?” another porter asked.
“Chilled?” chimed a valet.
“How about a raincoat?” grinned a thin waiter.
“No, no, no, and no, no thank you. No.” Farmer Ducket stoutly replied.
“Welcome to Camp Site 42!” they all jeered jollily.
He hoisted his boots over their heads, careful not to squash any, and scaled the mountain which led to the heart of Camp Sire 42. Farmer Ducket eventually sat beside an empty carriage floundered on a white crystal shore of dusk and breeze.
He tumbled onto his bottom and sat the cage and me down on the largest pebble this shore had owned. His giant arms hugged around the floundered carriage and he wept aloud, rich with loving words for whispers of the past. His voice heaved with sighs of stinging remembrance, and his eyes flushed with the rivers of yesterday’s rain.
To me, it looked and sounded like opera.
He wiped his eyes and beard clean and propped up his guitar, giving it a strum as he peered down into the cage and winked at me, flashing a gapped grin.
“This one is for you, Paulette.”
He then stopped and snorted abruptly. Twitching his broken-capillary nose and blinking each eye twice individually, he scooped me out of the cage and tossed me into the water, spitting after me.
“N’g’yah’g’h!” he spattered. “T’ain’t none of no fish I ever seen!”
I stood up abruptly and held myself afloat in the sweeping shore, flapping my tail and tossing back my hair, baring my sea maiden identity to Farmer Ducket.
Yet, the behemoth man of nature shooed me away with his hands and shook his head vigorously with disgust.
“Why will you not look at me, my sapien!”
“F’yul’ch’och!” he spat again. “You’re not no creature to be looked at!”
“But I am Telesa,” I softly protested. “The mermaid! I’ve…I’ve come to be earth promised…by you.”
I then released the air of giggly promise and tittering praise from my coral gills, breathing my nautical gift upon the giant of my dreams. When I finished my display, I looked up at Farmer Ducket like a barnacle to a whale, full of hope.
“Mnhm,” he scratched his beard and began to turn his head. “You don’t scare me, witch fish woman. Hide yourself. Now! Don’t want you here. You’re out of bounds and don’t belong in Camp Site 42!”
He paused now. He cut off all air from his words and let his eyes wander to my glistening tail. They stayed there for a moment. My scales began to give way and now I stood as a total human woman, skinny legs and all.
Farmer Ducket sat on the biggest pebble and wept, cradling the empty fishnet-stocking cage to his heart.
I shivered. I had never experienced that. What did he see that horrified him so? What made him hate me so easily? What man of nature denies a woman of the sea?
Standing erectly, a black figure against the orange ambience, I stooped my face downward to the pooling river and saw my reflection.
I screamed. I did not stop until it was dark.
