Faded and feathered know the solemn dancer. They fold with it and scold with it, and heaven knows they grow old with it. The land crawlers ticker-tape their warnings in a million parades, the biters growl and howl out uncertainty of tribe, and better than most the shallow breathers know how it plays out in drum and scum all the way down to the sea.

Truth is that ten thousand starless nights have taught me the flash of its soliloquies in scale and tail as well as I know my own. The mending of me was stank from the minds of fin and they play out that leap beyond soul more than any I have ever met. They live it like they live the ocean. The source it is, but not the knowing. And in all its abundance I too had forgotten that those who know it best no longer have a need for names.

So what of it here? Here with the takers and the breakers? So many pretty portraits painted that it’s hard to remember they all have the same stink ink behind their smiles. But it seems to me, child, that in all their certainty they still hunt and flee in the same direction.

I know you still see it too, crayoned in the scratchings, mapped out in the meaningless ribbons of their tempered tapestry. Because in all the wreckage of this unheeded I can taste the scars again, rust right through to mercury.

They play hummingbird with unasked questions while the plungers stay solid in their lifeboats and curse the sting of silver air. And so their denial soothes away the salt from my bones. The tower of minuets rings, the table shatters and I cocoon another piece of flesh from its toll. Strange that I had forgotten the hope of never feeling this again.

And what of your home, rag and bone? Will you watch the windows again? Will you waste the night with your thought taking? I have spoken with too many ghosts to imagine that life is the real priority here.

Fear I am but do not call me fear. For in all this broken water you still think of me in nouns. And I am fugitif.


The Art of Drowning

By Phil Huston, Ash N Finn and Jac Forsyth

3 writers
1 story
No rules
No destination
What could possibly go wrong?

This series was inspired by a creepy piece of artwork created by Ash. To catch up with more episodes, click on the sub menu.





26 thoughts on “The Art of Drowning – 1.7 – by Jac Forsyth

  1. ” And in all its abundance I too had forgotten that those who know it best no longer have a need for names.” – whoa, and hell yeah, bring it on, Jac, and you so have done, again 😉

    Liked by 3 people

  2. The fluid movement of your words read like music notes. Damn. You’re so frigging brilliant. I need new words and phrases to describe how stunning you are, and how you manage to swell the fibers of my being.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hahahaha! I watching an English comedian once, years ago. He was discussing the differences in American spellings/pronunciations. “In America, you say eerb. In England, we say hherb. Because there’s a fucking H in it.” LOL

    Liked by 2 people

  4. I have spoken with too many ghosts to imagine that life is the real priority here”.” Oh yes.

    Oh very yes. Oh yes indeedy. We like that muchly.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. Your wordery is beyond measure, the poetic flow of everything I see you write is in a league of its own. Another fantastic piece, always leaves an impression, and this was no different. Bravo to both you and your lingering words, they’ll be with me for a while!

    Liked by 1 person

  6. It doesn’t get any better. Prose that deserves to be hacked into poetic staves.

    “Strange that I had forgotten the hope of never feeling this again.”
    The roots of dichotomy and conflict are never shallow, and are never without a history… Solemn (spectral) dancer.

    I just listened to old ELP’s “Battlefield.” Really loud.

    Liked by 2 people

  7. “Hahahahaha! That IS a good one. Fanny sends me into fits.”

    I worked for a company that sent their American accessories catalog to their English distributor. Page 17. “Fanny pack.” You can imagine the mail they got.

    Liked by 1 person

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