pond scum

I verge on intractable when I write, but this moment must be documented. I will try to keep my extraneous thoughts at minimum. An incorrigible element to the day’s progress stood as a fixture mocking me. Angst and incrimination were as heavy in the room as my eyelids. A mélange of miniature singing toads harmonized the sunset as it drew near. But a painful gasp in my recollection jettisoned their stoic display of piety and joy.

Look at me dance. I am a portentous mammal swimming about the whim of melancholy tides. My kin are near but without swollen gullet. I should not eviscerate the calm their presence shunts over our pond with, but I must tell you about a disturbing event involving my three legged cousin James. At first most are inclined to avoid considering such a preposterous affair solely due to a lack of belief. Not regarding James, who I assure is much too potent to disregard, but rather due to the enormity of the story’s unnerving palpability.

The quagmire we call ours is more the Thompsons than our own by propinquity’s sake, but we are truly the caretakers of the marsh and thus feel obliged to defend its perimeter from assault. A feat that we have managed without disturbance for two or three generations, at least until James’ disfortuitous encounter (with the pond dweller).

James had always been my favorite cousin. He was …