Most landscape features prefer to be viewed only in the bravado of their present. They have an assumed past, an anticipated future. We rivers aren’t like that. There is no room for rumination or conjecture. Like the path of a raindrop down a windowpane, you can trace my journey with a fingertip.
I start in the mountains, amongst the heather and the scree. Fresh from the snows above, I thread my way a thousand ways through a billion pebbles. Often you won’t even see me; I’ll be a trickle, a gurgle hidden beneath your feet. I’m icy-cold here, cold enough to make you ache should you splash me over your face. I’m peppy. I’m feisty. Gravity has yet to exert its pull on my playfulness.
Next we’re into the gorges, where I’m starting to grow into myself. I’m fizzing through fissures here, gushing in between boulders. I’m at my most aggressive, snarling around bends and reaching up granite walls. I care nothing for landscape. Get in my stream or get out of my way. I’ll foam and I’ll mash. I’ll leap
from
on high
without a
thought
of where I might land. Dip your toe in me here and I’ll drag you under, I swear it.
All that energy can’t last through, all that rage. Like a teen whose hormones have ebbed, I begin to feel vaguely embarrassed about my behavior upon reaching the plains. I start to realise that behaving the way that a river is supposed to behave may not necessarily be such a bad thing, that taking pleasure in a journey isn’t the purview of the dull and the doddery. There’s elegance in what I do now. If I erode my banks, it’s with the lightest of touches. I’m a potter sitting at my wheel, my hands caressing the sides of my sculpture, slick with clay. It’s here that I make my masterpieces – my oxbow lakes, my sweeping bends, my undercut, grassy banks.
Such serenity never lasts though, and as soon as I grow into my adulthood it begins to slip through my fingers. I can no longer keep my movements coherent.
I’m losing the height that powered my earlier endeavour.
Listless, my thoughts start to make their own way towards their destination, spreading out like a veined hand pushing against a table for balance. It’s mud, now, underneath me. Flat, featureless mud. A mile deep and miles wide.
I push, exhausted, towards the horizon where a grey sea awaits me.
Dark clouds loom over the waves, low-slung with rain and roiling towards the mountains behind me.
What I wouldn’t give to join them.
***Thanks for reading, folks. As always, all likes and comments greatly appreciated. Also thought I’d share a couple of short stories that I’ve really enjoyed in recent weeks…
The first is ‘Yard Work‘ by the fantastic Nadine, in an example of a perfectly formed piece of flash fiction.
Also well worth a read is ‘Hooked‘ by Tom Burton. The first paragraph is a brilliant example of how to land your reader slap-bang in the middle of Dickensian London, always a difficult task in short fiction.
If you’re looking for two more short fiction authors to follow, look no further.
Beautifully written. The river spirits dance with glee after reading your piece 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Cheers!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I LOVE this piece Matthew. So beautiful. And I am so humbled and honoured that you include a link to my (yard) work at the end of it! Thank you so much for your heartwarming compliment! Means the world to me!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Not at all Nadine. It has stayed with me ever since I read it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is such a great piece! Love how you immerse the reader with the senses & carrying them through the landscape to the sea. Thank you ever so much for recommending my first attempt at flash fiction. It’s so kind of you! 😀
LikeLiked by 1 person
Not at all Tom. Loved your London piece. Really stuck with me!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This was a great read! I especially loved how the pace/tone of your writing changed with the speed of the river. It really drew me in!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much. You were well worth commenting upon! Love your writing!
LikeLike
That’s beautiful!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Chris
LikeLike
Dear Math, How well you have turned Geography into a lyrical narrative of eloquent prose. Anand Bose from Kerala.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks so much Anand. This is an oldie but one which I was very pleased with. Glad it met with your approval!
LikeLiked by 1 person