The October Malice ༄ (gxg)

one, teardrop bridge

Leaves rustled together, their coarse backs grazing one another's under impetus of the wind.

The large, round face of the moon hung still in the sky even through the wind whose speed was picking up and bending the spines of the dense trees. It was like the moon was permanently painted there against its black background, its edges fragmented by the wind who spurred bits of it to scatter about the night sky in the form of little stars that did not flicker nor shoot. The sky was inanimate and still, a distant cloud threatening further darkness.

The confluence of sky and earth was divided by a lake that faced the moon like a mirror. Maybe that's why he was so still—the wind made its watery mirror so choppy that his reflection was marred to an unrecognizable extent. Maybe the moon was silenced by that uneasy feeling of not distinguishing one's self, the disorient of not knowing whom one presumed their self to be.

The lake was shaped in a torturous, silver teardrop with diamond edges. It sat in the middle of the mountainous forest, and somehow, even though it beat upon its shores on all sides and tossed back and forth in tumultuous waves, it was silent.

Even the leaves of the trees refrained from their disruptions, still moving under the wind's hand yet making no sound.

The only sound was that of feet scuffling on pavement—slowly. There was no rhythm or beat to these scuffles of steps, only an unhinged melody of rubber soles scratching against the concrete road that surfaced a precarious bridge strung over the middle of the lake, converging two highways that just couldn't bear to twist around the teardrop and instead chose to stretch right across it.

The trees, the lake, and the moon silenced themselves attentively, Mother Nature's eyes casting upon the origin of the scuffs as she held her breath.

Rubber boots that left streaks of black across the road, avoiding the potholes that never ceased, were shuffled by the slender, hunched figure wearing them. The old man, his favorite beige cap sitting loosely on his head where his short grey hair poked from beneath it, trudged along the side of the bridge, carrying a bucket of fish in one hand and a fishing pole in the other.

He spent most of his evenings fishing, usually only for the enjoyment of it rather than the gain. But the fish were plentiful that evening since it had been cooler weather, so the elderly man decided to stay out past nighttime to catch enough to throw a fish fry for one. Being alone meant he could at least have all the fried fish to himself, even against his cardiologist's orders.

So he journeyed back across the bridge where his home sat only half a mile on the other side, glad that he was still mobile enough at his age to be able to walk a couple miles without getting too exhausted. That's how he spent most of his days, anyhow—walking, fishing, hunting. There wasn't much else to do, which he was glad for, but he wished that perhaps he could have had someone walking there with him for some company. That's really the only thing the old man longed for—company.

As he walked the long bridge, his body swaying side-to-side due to his stiff knees, he heard another scuffle somewhere behind him. He stopped walking for a moment but did not turn around—his back ached too much and his neck was too sore from staring down at the water all evening. So he listened with his ears that just so happened to be the one thing of himself that did not deteriorate with age, and his hearing was acute from years of hunting deer, squirrels, and turkey.

Upon not hearing anything, he brought a wrinkled finger up and scratched the back of his ear as he continued along.

The moon watched, and it seemed as if its dark craters were widening like terrified eyes. Suddenly, the bridge groaned underneath the weight of the old man's footsteps, and the scuffles returned, this time sprinting fast towards him.