A short story about a detached narrator going on walk.
Soft clopping as the mud licks its lips and soaks its teeth into my trainers. Like dragging your spoon through thickening soup too quickly. Even when I try to slow my pace, I still feel the mud finding its way on the back of my denim jeans. So many poems about the tranquillity that nature has to offer. Stories written about how people find perfect peace while walking among the trees. But someone’s eyes are stuck on my shoulders. My joints are stiff, and each time the undetectable grass paths turn, I worry of what I may find.
A year ago, on the public right-of-way path behind my house, I explored every morning. Setting off at six, before the sky got its orange-ish glow. Until, one day in May. I discovered a rotting sheep. Ribs taller than the wool, that the wind blew, because no skin held it taut. I didn’t want to touch the passed sheep’s coat. But I bent down and rubbed my thumb and index finger against the cream curls. Not as scratchy compared to the sweaters, not as soft as depicted. Not wet from the morning dew, not dry either. No words come to mind on how to describe. So, I turned around, I hid back in bed and cried. And never went on that path again.
This path, though a kilometre away, is scattered with small patches of curls. Worries, doubts, of what if I witness another sheep passing over, or worse. A lamb that wasn’t born to the farmer's due season. Unaware of the baby that may need extra attention and is too fragile; it fades away. But not without me seeing it, legs up, leaning against the wire frame. Days trying to get someone’s attention. Laying against the fence, hoping the mothers in the other fields will come and save its day.
I don’t spot any blacked eyed creatures which slowly walk away as you advance. Only bunnies quickly hiding within the biodegradable waste. Squirrels which bleed into the braids of bark on the sweet chestnuts. Birds I can hear, their calls sound like they are too far away. But I see specks of dusted black, flapping in the treetops.
I’m halted by the fence in the middle of the path suffering from wood decay. Two little circles one above the next hold precedence on the post. Bright yellow arrows with a deep green footprint within, surrounded by more deep green, in the shape of a circle. One arrow points, directing me to land that looks as though it’s abandoned. Fields filled with nothing but overgrown plants, pile of debris scattered among them. The arrow below faces to my left. To a road that seems to disappear. And I’m left debating. How can forced decisions without warning cause for my nervous system to relax?
My first choice was left; the road that vanishes before I force my legs to travel up a hill. However, after a slow walk, the road turns and ends up at a driveway. With the owners emptying their car of what I presume is groceries. I dare not to invade their space. So, I am left forcing myself to climb the hill, covered in items created in an attempt to trip me.
Arm reaches over the discoloured wood. To lift the silver handle, allowing for the gate to swing open and for me to slip through. There is a small white sign with red letters, asking, pleading for individuals to shut the gate after them. I oblige, scared that if I were to not, my arms would be glued above my head, sprouting out. Feet together, head leaning against my dominant arm, and petrified among the trees.
Distant arguments between sheep, are carried to me from the wind. Their vibrant wool is scattered, but I still cannot spot the creatures. Standing tall on the grassy hill before me is a full black scarecrow. I thought this walk was supposed to calm my nerves, instead, it is just another situation in which my stomach turns. The gust causes what my brain can only assume is hair to flow so elegantly, it feels as though I’m watching a perfume commercial. My pace slows as I approach the field, and with my muddy steps, the scarecrow moves.
And I become the idiot that thought a horse was a scarecrow.
Along with two horses, which quickly move away from me, are scattered Jacob sheep. Little Holstein cows with four horns, strong mothers carrying their young. Known for being able to produce enough milk for even triplets. I was given formula during my infant years, is that why I do not find enjoyment out of solitude? Why I can feel judgment through eyes I cannot see. Born with strong hooves, and my feet pronate and have given me knee issues. To be able to walk across the hills as easily as them would be a dream.
I am convinced their eyes are cameras, reporting to I don’t know who. But I’m pretty sure there is a bunker hidden within the soil in the corner of the field. And the wet terrain is slowing me down. That childhood fear of quicksand causes me to notice that there are no long branches on the floor to save me. Maybe I will let myself dissipate into nothing but the earth.
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