It is circa 5.30 PM, the coveted golden hour unfurls, crunch by crunch like a ball of lustrous foil. The enchanting aged sun cedes it’s throne by the minute, its warmth petering out.
You are perched on the nether end of a disused wooden pier overlooking the now orange choppy waters, the air peppered by the buzzing obstinate mosquitoes.
Yonder, lies the vast fringes of obscurity and nothingness, where the darkening sky kisses the earth.
The precarious pier creaks, threatening too implode under the infirmness of age, solitude and spiteful disregard.
The cold breeze smashes against your torso, infusing frosty air into your nostrils. Your bare feet dangle wispily over the troubled waters. Your mind; a furore of apprehensiveness and angst.
Undulating waves intermittently crash on the rotting pillars underneath, then forge forth to the shores in pacific sound.
In the far flung waters, a couple of boats bob forlorn – lanterns shimmering therein. In them, perchance, eager faces of men cast their nets intent to make an abundant catch.
You jump off into the waters and unmoor your boat, lugging it into the lake.
The next morning a boat might be swept ashore, empty, it could be anybody’s. For now, underneath the behemoth lake, diabolic ghosts of those swallowed by the lake hum ominously.
Mizani 