tarotea

The little lake is off to the side of a forgotten park, mostly hidden by overgrown Christmas ferns and a collapsed bench. It’s not pretty or peaceful or pleasant in any quantifiable way – one does not go on dates to the little lake. One barely considers going there on a bender. The banks are boggy and the water’s surface is always clogged with fallen leaves, plastic bags, the occasional mildewed jacket or glove. No mosquitos, though. Just quiet, stillness, and the dank smell of something that died and rotted long ago. It’s still there, of course, barely visible beneath the water but diffuse enough to squint and imagine something different. Easier to confuse the glimmer of enamel as a small, smooth stone; easier to believe the old sodden glove is empty.

– From October Writing Prompts