Steven Hunley
08-24-2010, 02:03 AM
When he took off his cowboy shirt with the snaps they pulled lose of the rotten shirt leaving holes.
“It’s the climate,” he said, looking at his rotting tennies “It rots everything. It’s time I went down river to see Nigel."
Three real men were going downriver in a small canoe with an outboard motor. He waved them ashore and passed cigarettes around.
“Going downriver?”
It was only too obvious they were as their canoe was full of skins. They were hunters. Ancient Enfield jungle carbines were stacked in the narrow wood prow. Their vehicle had once been a single living thing… a tree…now it was dead and a good canoe. Natives know how to recycle and had probably used it for years. You see, it rains rough in the tropics, the trees learn to be tough and know how not to rot. A tall man sitting in prow smiled with irregular teeth stained with betelnut and offered him a ride as far as,
“Your cigarettes hold out.”
Michael himself pushed them off of the mud.
The river that day was flat. Yellow mud was on most of the banks, darker around the rocks. Lots of leaves and debris spotted the surface everywhere you looked. Tall green reeds with yellow corn-silk catails made rivulets of bubbles streamiong behind them downstream like silver shimering scimitars. The outboard carved the river behind, bending outward in a gigantic rabbit-ear TV antennae. It was cooler over the water as the wind blew back over your face. Six white herons searching for food to your right, squadrons of green turtles sunning themselves on grey rocks on your left. They felt just like he did…totally fine. Nobody had to paddle.
“It’s the climate,” he said, looking at his rotting tennies “It rots everything. It’s time I went down river to see Nigel."
Three real men were going downriver in a small canoe with an outboard motor. He waved them ashore and passed cigarettes around.
“Going downriver?”
It was only too obvious they were as their canoe was full of skins. They were hunters. Ancient Enfield jungle carbines were stacked in the narrow wood prow. Their vehicle had once been a single living thing… a tree…now it was dead and a good canoe. Natives know how to recycle and had probably used it for years. You see, it rains rough in the tropics, the trees learn to be tough and know how not to rot. A tall man sitting in prow smiled with irregular teeth stained with betelnut and offered him a ride as far as,
“Your cigarettes hold out.”
Michael himself pushed them off of the mud.
The river that day was flat. Yellow mud was on most of the banks, darker around the rocks. Lots of leaves and debris spotted the surface everywhere you looked. Tall green reeds with yellow corn-silk catails made rivulets of bubbles streamiong behind them downstream like silver shimering scimitars. The outboard carved the river behind, bending outward in a gigantic rabbit-ear TV antennae. It was cooler over the water as the wind blew back over your face. Six white herons searching for food to your right, squadrons of green turtles sunning themselves on grey rocks on your left. They felt just like he did…totally fine. Nobody had to paddle.