Waiting on Nothing to Happen BY: M.D. Mynhier It was a good morning on the island. He sat at a desk he had fashioned from old boards and timbers he had found along the coves and beaches. They had been worn smooth and bleached white and were with rounded jagged ends that he left on them. It was a plain piece of furniture that did the job required of it. In his hands, he held the paper containing words he had written the previous morning. He liked to start each morning by reading what he had written, sipping a mug of his favorite chocolate coffee and as he did so, a rose colored sunrise was meeting the Atlantic side of the island It was still dark on the western coast but soon the gulf waters would glisten with a dazzling golden sunshine As he read his words, he made changes in the margins that allowed him to get deep into the flow for what he would write that morning. He hoped to get a few paragraphs onto the page before the heat of the day forced him to surrender the upstairs studio for a cooler place and breakfast. He had forged the studio from a small room above the old coach house that was now a garage only holding automobiles. The stable stalls, he left as they were and there was still a smell of hay and harness leather. The world had given in to modernization, but he was sentimental. Working upstairs, above the old carriage house was good for him. He liked the aloneness he felt beneath the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. And it made it easier to write when the shadows of the big game animal heads hanging along the walls were at their darkest. It was always better to write when ghosts’ of your own kills keep reminding you how taking the shot is the end of the animal is a thing that always stays with you no matter the time of day but it becomes a part of you when the shadows sneak on you while you are distracted by your words, he thought. The shadows always sneaked on him as the dawn came. He was always aware when daylight saved him from the ghost. It was a game he played as he worked and he always feared the longer winter nights that could hold the darkness just long enough in the mornings for the shadows to win. It was his game and no one else knew. He felt a bit silly sometimes about the game and he felt grief for the magnificent animals but he also felt it was man’s duty to hunt and to fish for the great trophy animals. He felt there is never a thing wrong with killing as long as the meat and all other useable parts of the animal are used. When he had written several good lines, he lay the work on the desk and walked to the window to watch the sunrise. He liked to give the shadows one last chance as he stood at the window with his back to them. Not knowing for certain, he knew, was always where the thrill lived. He was never sure when it never happened if it was the good thing. After all, life with that thrill is not worth much, he though. After watching the sea brighten as the sun dabbed it with color, he headed down the stars and was off for a brisk walk to the café for breakfast. It was always good at the café. Fisherman gathered there and the shrimpers were just arriving after selling their catch so information flew faster than most could garb it. He listened, learning from the rowdy seamen where schools of dolphin, tuna and, if he was lucky enough, where the big marlin were working. All of this was good because after breakfast, he always took the boat out for a day of hard fishing. It was the way he relaxed and when his mind was on fishing, his mind was rolling the words he would use the following morning. Ideas he was not even considering formed like the endless swells on the sea and his favorite thing about it, he never have to worry. The words always came and the bigger the fight with a great fish, the better the words seemed to be. When there were no fish, the words still came. It was a thing he never questioned. He knew when it was working, allow it to work. Tinkering with it or attempting to dissect it, he understood held nothing good for him. When it entered his mind, he laughed a big belly laugh because he knew that at worst; he would have a hell of a day fishing the gulf even if he never put another word on paper. Signed copies of my novel “Where Islands Are” are $10.99 while they last, plus $5.01 postage making the total $16.00. Make your check or money order payable to M.D. Mynhier. Mailing address: Where Islands Are, 2395 Harbor Blvd, Condo 218, Port Charlotte, FL 33952 You can also find “Where Islands Are” at Amazon for Kindle.
Posted on: Wed, 22 Jan 2014 03:49:13 +0000
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