Issue 3:
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Jacquelin McArtor
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Ester Goes Home
The lily pads had Ester Lake in a death grip. Circling and entwining like some ravenous boa constrictor, they'd surrounded and swallowed her soft, muddy shore, gulping greedily ... ceaselessly inward.
Once, Ester had shimmered in the noonday sun. Once, ski boats stroked her surface, sending cold ripples through her blue water, leaving parts of her shaking and zig-zagging outward. Once, but not now.
Now, she lay quiet and covered like some veiled maiden, peeking out at the world through green, gauzy layers of frog eggs and mosquito larva.
Yet, Ester did not struggle. In fact, she welcomed the stench of death and decay. Her lazy waters now gently caressed the belly-up blue-eyed bass that used to lunge for dragonflies. She rippled as nickel bugs darted here and there beneath her. She strained as bottom roots took hold. She knew she was a dying lake.
But she knew she was not dying. She was simply returning to the swamp from wence she came.
Ester was going home.
~Jacquelin McArtor
Besides writing as much as she can, she loves long walks to the laundry for wayward socks and frantic searches for candles when the power goes out. Email.
© 1999 by Jacquelin McArtor. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.