For my first post i thought, why not display a homage for the person who ignited my passion for writing? So without much more blabber, I hope you Ray Bradbury lovers out there as myself will appreciate this couple page, close-kint parody of one of this man's most heartbreaking and beautiful short stories; The Fog Horn.
Out in the distance away from everything we knew, near speckled stones that hit the shores of the sea just right, we kept watch every night for the Migrators. And they came, and we scattered the lightning bugs into their thinly veiled balloons amidst our small island of bleeding hearts, salvias, bee balms, and honeysuckle. With our bodies lithe with nostalgia, Perry and I hoisted the balloons in their place and the amplifiers behind us within our glass box atop the meadow, all the while checking the sound with one snap, two snap, then three. In the chance that they missed our pasture lit as if with low-lying stars, then there was always the humming that emitted our speakers when tuned to just the right height, like dozens of steadfast planes that made the waters ripple and the gulls scatter like crisp autumn leaves.
“This is as peacefully lonely as life can get, but you’ve become accustomed to it, have you not?” asked Perry.
“You bet,” I replied. “It helps that, luckily, you talk enough to keep a hibernating bear awake!”
“That a fact?” he asked smirking, “Good thing tomorrow’s your turn to entertain the ladies and gents with drinks and tales!”
“Touché old-timer. But tell me something Perry, what is it that fills your time when I leave you out here in your lonesome?”
“The secrecies of this piece of drifted land we stand on.” Perry lit his cigar. It was half past eight in the early frost of November, the furnace blazed, the fireflies twinkled within confines of oval shapes as Perry continued to modify the volume of the humming with rests every three minutes. The nearest town stood 70 miles off the seaboard and in the darkness the road stretched on into a deserted abyss, surrounded by galaxies of blackness, few cars, even fewer ships, and miles of a roaring sea leading to our island with too often than not, no Migrators in sight.
“The secrecies of this piece of drifted land,” Perry reiterated considerately. “If you think about it, this small island is like an anchor. It remains the one thing that’s constant, always in its place, a sure thing no maybes. But the water around it is always moving, surrounding the anchor by waves of all heights and depths, none ever the same and somehow it keeps this ship of a town intact too. Peculiar.
One night years ago, perhaps even this very same night while I stood alone, all the yellow finches in the sky came out, fluttering, wing by wing till they reached the shore and finally descended. They marveled at our firefly garden whilst the humming drifted from low to high to low and their feathers almost glistened against the moonlit sky simply staring. It was a mass of them, like the night sky had tilted upside-down compelling them to this place. Then, a little after midnight, without so much as a whisper they scattered away, back to where they came from. Can you imagine? Thousands of them just gone as if they were never there, their imprints lost to the sands of time. But consider what the island must look like to them. It’s elevated a good 60 feet at its peak and at night, the entire island glows and hums loud enough to send vibrations down to the ocean floor. Peculiar, but maybe they were looking up at it all, thinking that this was their leader, the one who began it all like the closest supernova ever known. You think maybe they thought this was their Maker?”
I shuddered. My gaze swept over the settled black sea stretching to everywhere and nowhere.
“Hard to say. There’s so much out there.” Perry puffed his cigar anxiously, a chill seizing his body intermittently. This anxiousness had surrounded him the entire day and he had yet to tell me why. “Even with all the technology we boast about in our time, we still haven’t seen what really lurks at the bottom of our waters. Ancient cities, undiscovered life, that’s the true fear; the unknown. Consider this, while we’ve been gallivanting around on our high horses thieving our own species land and wasting the world’s resources, those finches have been living upon a sky that never ends and these fish in a bottomless sea an unimaginable length deep and frigid. Both in a spell that’s older than the concept of God.
“You hit it on the bone, the world’s damn old,” I retort.
“Lets take a walk. There’s something rather grand I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
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