Time & the man who cooked me fish
Time. She runs ahead and falls behind. She vanishes into the night, and is there, at the end of the tunnel, in that dot of light.
Over the past few weeks/months, I’ve spent most of my time editing, re-editing and re-re-editing my debut novel. It’s a time-consuming process, but I hope it’ll be worth it when I share it with you all. Subscribe to keep up to date!
To avoid the demoralisation that can, and often does come with the editing phase, I’ve taken to writing pieces of flash fiction and, on occasion, poetry. This edition has one of each. The poem I wrote this Christmas while flying home and the flash fiction I wrote this week while reminiscing about my time in Albania a few years ago.
Time, stay with me.
Originally featured in - Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology
Time. She runs ahead and falls behind.
She vanishes into the night,
and is there, at the end of the tunnel, in that dot of light.
Time. Stay with me, walk by my side so I don't worry.
But she will not, she's stubborn,
I'm left wondering, do I need to hurry?
Time. She sleeps in a bed, but it’s not mine.
She’s with another or no one ever,
or perhaps I’m jealous, lashing out, trying to be clever.
The man who cooked me fish
It’s been a week of wondering. Wondering, where I've found myself why am I here, who are these people sitting around this table, and where does this wine come from? The fire’s crackling with each new log, spitting embers into the breeze. The old man turns his head, pulling his hat low. He’s muttering something, and now his face fills with shadows. I wonder what he’s saying; I wonder if he needs help and whether I can offer any. He’s turning the fish around, giving each side the time it deserves. They’ve told me this scaled swimmer is a rarity, only found here, in their lake nestled between mountains. Is it true, and if it is, should I eat it at all? I wonder how many times the old man has charred the same skin over the same fire, in the same basket, under the same sky. I wonder if he’s cooking it because I'm here or if he would have made the effort regardless. Concentration deepens the creases on his forehead as he inspects his work. The scales are black and silver. "Not yet," I think I hear him say, and he puts fish to flame again. Fat is dripping to the beat of a metronome. He’s smiling. It’s a good sign, or is it? He says something once more, and I search for his eyes in the shadows they hide in. There’s a pause. “Good fish for you. My friend.” I smile. There’s little left to wonder about now.
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Love, Luke.