Fishing with Sticks

Upon the river, up, up we go. 

Floating, drifting. 

 

The endless tide pulls me out towards the edge of the sky, the seams sewn so tightly together they become indistinguishable from one another.

It feels okay here. Safe-ish. Away from the snapping mouths, teeth bared, ready to swallow me whole — surrounded by an endless nebulousness. I can feel the dipping of the oars sinking further into the indigo caramel silk of the sea, spooning syrup onto the wood as it glides through the expanse.

 

My body flies 

Stranded without strings,

Moving through air.

 

Water lapping against the side of the boat is meditative, a vacuum plopped into my centre of the universe, a bubble of safety provided as a means of escape. The sun beams down onto the waves, specks of silver peppering the blanket of blue.

My oar taps something underneath me, a large squishy solid traversing through the water in the ebony below. The slivers of silver caught along rippling scales, shining incandescently in the softening light. The swishing sound of the water rose up from the oars as they created crinkles in the fabric of the sea.

 

Up the river we go

Floating up, 

Up

Up

 

The screaming stopped here. No sounds except the dipping as my arms strained against the wooden movement. Elbows popped outwards, a pondskater on a bigger expanse, promoted in my role.

The noiseless noise was comforting to my brain, its wrinkles able to breathe and expand, moving in and out in time with exhalations. The creaking sound scratched at my skin as the groaning from underneath continued. 

 

An angel 

through the waves 

It dances 

Silvery and white 

Come to life in the 

Light

 

The boat tips to one side, granting me a peek over the edge of the boat. If I got too close I could fall right off the edge of the world. Tumbling over the leaf-shaped bowl, and sinking down into the neverending darkness. 

Light moves over the water, the ripples illuminating a colossal being swimming past underneath, grey scales being brushed by the movement of water. My oar grazed it and touched the pebbles that lined its flesh.

 

Up the river 

With the angel

Singing in 

Blue 

 

As I push the boat forward, my arms burning with the strain of the oncoming waves, the being beneath me shoots an arc up and out of the water, glistening in the sun’s light as silver beams off the surface. It pushes against the grain of the wood, shattering and sending fragments into the air and piercing back into my flesh.

And still, the screaming that used to haunt me is silent. As the water rushes towards me, moving up, up, up as I move through the ocean, my stick-like arms meld with the oars. My skin burns with the sun blazing down, the orange ball sewn into the fabric of the sky now seems to attack, to send glares and fire beams down from the heavens onto my skin. Pink blotches blossom over my skin, bleeding into a darker red over time, flakes of skin forming snowflakes across my arms.

 

The angel’s dance

Fluffing out its wings

Swimming up, up, up

towards the mouth

Floating out to sea

 

Each time the oar dips into the denim-coloured water, creaks emerge from pond-skater angled elbows. The sun continues to sizzle on, flakes of skin floating into the sea like confetti, as the blaze intensifies. 

Warbles and groans slip out from the oblong silver object slithering on the underside of the boat. The once quiet horizon is taken up by the noise of this thing underneath me, singing, crying, whatever it was doing — it was not doing it quietly. The invasive sound splices into the muted nebulousness of the expanse. Other than the sounds of sloshing, no other sound had permeated.

I felt my oar hit against the side of the beast again and the warbling grew louder. Had I hurt it? Had the oar pierced its side and soon there would be crimson melting into the blue? But none of this came into fruition, and onwards my oars moved towards an unknown land on which I could have a fresh start: away from the snapping jaws and forever angry voices, the intense fire burning hotter each day.

 

It glides upwards, 

up, up

up

The River, Silver

and Blue mixing 

with Oak 

The Angel 

Here

 

I could imagine a world in which these voices could not reach me, where their impacts couldn’t affect me: where it wouldn’t shape the essence of my existence, but I couldn’t think of any. It seemed that everywhere I looked these snapping mouths and infernal fire spread far and wide, covering endless horizons, sinking its jaws into the earth and polluting it. Other snapping mouths rising up in its wake, born from hatred and forced to be hateful.

My arms started to slow in this pursuit of a nonexistent existence, a life where there would be a lack of snapping mouths and fiery land. Yet no matter how much land or water I had covered, I could not find proof of this existing anywhere. The strains in my arms burned hotter, the skin irritated and swollen, scarring and patchy. 

The wood cried against my skin, leaving splinters as a form of kisses on my palms, splattering oak colour into the pink of my flesh, with faint dots of cranberry blending into the waves my hands had formed. Small droplets formed in the corners of my eyes, squeezing themselves out onto my skin, trickling down the sides of my face.

 

The Angel 

Up, up

River

Blue and Oak

And red

 

I craned my neck over the side of the boat, watching the giant below me, how it moved through the water, how it stayed afloat, the soft swipes and gentle movements that propelled it forward. Despite everything that could have led to it sinking, it managed to stay suspended, dancing through indigo rivulets under the surface. 

My oars dipped in and out, smothering the wood in the thick liquid, moving through treacle and tar; scooping my way towards the hidden shore in the distance. My arms grew more tired as the fight continued against the hardening surface, seaweed seemingly growing exponentially to grab onto the oars moving through the water. Hitting against the side of the being and snagging at its fins. A warble bubbled up towards me. 

 

Up, up the river

Angel’s wait 

in silver

At the ocean’s gate

 

Bared teeth shone in the sun’s glare, huge yellowed mounds circling the rosy-red mouth as it opened its jaw. The boat rocked, once, twice, before I crashed into the water, scattering water droplets into the air and down onto my skin.

The wood creaked and cracked under the teeth of the beast, swallowing the boat whole. As much as I tried, my arms were much too tired to swim, and into the mouth I went, slipping silently into the cavernous gap between roof and tongue.