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solaariaa · 2 months

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𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥. 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

751 words.

Louisiana sun bled behind the Bayou Soley backdrop: thin beams of light splitting through the spanish moss that lazily draped across cypress tree branches. Cattails swayed as the water’s surface lapped gently against the sloping banks of the Mosquito Point settlement.

The bayou was unnaturally still, until a great blue heron laboured up into the air, settling in the high boughs. Soon after, a woman emerged from the trail leading to the small town of Hazel Rock. What looked to be the carcass of a doe was slung over the breadth of her shoulders.

The short, curved brim of her leather hat shaded a majority of her features, though failed to prevent the beads of sweat rolling down the length of her neck and gathering on her chest from glimmering like small diamonds. Nor did it hide her resolve; with her fingers curled tightly around the doe’s slim legs, she continued the gruelling trudge along the dirt road. She chose to ignore the alligators resting just off the waterfront, reflective lenses behind each pair of eyes flaming red in the low light.

She resigned herself to the fact it would be dark by the time she reached Mosquito Point. And indeed it was; water twinkled under the moonlight, gangways illuminated in warm hues from lanterns strung up between houses on repurposed fishing wire. Overhead, the cypress tree leaves whispered and little tufts of moss blew down to rest on the water’s surface.

The woman continued to follow the path of beaten earth until the mouth widened into the Dust Bowl. Smooth logs from twenty years of locals sitting upon them surrounded a small fire, the flames crackled and popped, filling the brief gaps between light conversation. A couple of heads turned or peered over shoulders, half dunked into the abyss by flickering shadows cast from the fire’s glow.

“Hell, ain’t that a pretty sight!” exclaimed one of the men around the fire, “you drag that off one of them there swamp puppies?” Jovial laughs echoed around the fire.

“He’s messin’ witcha, Manon,” spoke another, bringing a jar of moonshine up to his lips, “ain’t that right, Adonis? Know well an’ good our Mimi done that herself.” He took a healthy swig while Manon grimaced at the nickname.

“Course,” Adonis replied, head perking up like a small periscope from the tin of beans he had been eating, “messin’ witcha, Mimi.” A lopsided smile slipped onto his features.

“Awright,” the other responded, taking another generous mouthful of moonshine, “now where’d you get her?”

“Snake Hill,” she replied, adjusting the doe’s weight on her shoulders before she stepped up onto one of the gangways, “figured I'd be nice and buy dinner.”

A series of laughs filtered out into the air as Manon continued her trek across the winding walkways between houses both built on the waterfront and those upon stilts. She passed several docked boats densely packed with gillnets and fishing gear. A large carp rose to the surface of the dark water, gulped air and then sank mysteriously into the depths again, leaving widening rings on the water.

Ducking under a low hanging thread of fishing wire, she climbed the wooden ramp up to the platform of her home. Shrugging her shoulders, she discarded the doe. The carcass hit the wood with a large thud, stilts shaking momentarily before settling once more. Manon was not disturbed by the potential lack of structural integrity and instead pulled her rifle up and over her head, choosing to lean it against the side of the shack. Muscles in her shoulders ached as she reached upwards, pulling the heavy S shaped wire along a rounded plank of wood she had fashioned to the side of her shack. The sound of her soaked cotton shirt peeling away from her skin reminded her it had been drenched by blood that had steadily drooled out of the doe’s open wound as she carried it back from Snake Hill Meadow.

“Hope you gotta strong stomach,” she huffed, crouching down to once again hoist the doe up and over her shoulder before depositing it onto the hook. A thin rivulet of blood soaked the doe’s fur further after the barb nestled into the depth of the flesh. Next, she removed her hunting knife from her gunbelt and spoke morosely: “‘bout to get real messy.”

In the distance, the Dust Bowl’s fire dimmed on hot coals. Somewhere a coyote yammered, and a dog answered from the south. Both carried on the nighttime breeze.

#writing #my ocs #creative writing #fiction writing #writeblr #original fiction #my writing #feedback #god is a woman and that woman is manon benoit #lotus eater #cowboys #oh how i love cowboys

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