It's Still Life

Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Six Sentence Story: Day 15

Part 1 – Lake Windermere: It Starts Without a Plan

It begins, as many days do, without a plan—the sun rising behind the steep, sloping hills in a shade of green too lush for naming—and I stand on the dock, bare feet, my dressing gown drops into folds around my ankles, and I dive into the cold depths of Lake Windermere, resurfacing with a view eastward as the sun spills over the hills (that’s what one does after a night on the beach, after a few bottles of Malbec, after talking about nothing and everything in the spectral light of a fire pit, right?).

The fire crackled and spat last night, sparks dancing as we sat in its glow—Nick so intent, like when someone already knows everything about you but wants to hear your version anyway—”No,” I said, “it was a battered old Ordnance Survey map—full of stories of rainy picnics and muddy boots—a map that wants to be unfolded and pressed open with the palm of your hand”—and Nick lights a cigar with a sharp, lively hiss that made me want to inhale, followed by tiny bursts of moisture and flakes of ash.

Time slipped between the warp and weft of woodsmoke and cigar smoke; we pointed out stars, wished on those that fell, opened another bottle of Malbec, and I said, “It’s like white space in a painting—I always keep something of myself back—that’s where the real story is,” and I wondered if that was how an artist expresses themselves: “Do you omit anything from your art so the viewer is encouraged to complete your story?” I asked, and he pointed at another falling star before answering, “Not intentionally.”

Nick drew breath through his cigar and it hissed in reply—”Did I mention that I love a proper map?”—his voice is slightly lazy, “They beg one to make mistakes, allow detours—it’s like life—messy and unpredictable.”

I nodded. “Nick? I have a question—if I were about to puke, would I need to ask you to hold my hair out of the way?” and without taking his eyes off the next falling star, he said, “Are you going to puke?” and I shook my head, “No,” and he said, “My answer’s the same: No.”

And as I step out of the water and watch mist rising in curls off the lake, I am not at all surprised that there was no trace of the Hob this morning—he had vanished—and I understood; he didn’t want to run away, not exactly—he just wanted to feel what it was like to run away… to feel freedom.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “flake”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.

Description for the visually impaired: A cozy scene of a bald man with a long grey beard and a woman with long dark hair, both smiling warmly while sitting at a wooden table in a room filled with books and framed art.