- Introduction
- Community Gardens
- AB 2-1
- new project
- An Oyster's Observation of the Ending of Things
- New Atlas Burden (real this time)
- PPC22
- fight scene testing
- Her, Sunlit
- WIP
- Salmon
Hello, my name is meltedbee, and this is my sandbox. I collect the chronicles of Corbenic Leander (C. L.) Atlas and the records of his studies of one Valentina Eckhart, along with various other odds and ends.
Undergoing a workshop purge at the present moment, apologies.
I also have a CSS workshop! That is where I currently brainstorm and edit out CSS ideas like a continuous theme for Atlas' Burden! You can find it here!
Well, now that you're here, stay a while, enjoy yourself, and leave any comments you think would be helpful! I don't mind my sandbox being a more public affair.
Sodium lamps cast a sickly pallor over the paved streets below. It's been a while since I've been on this road, but it's still quite familiar to someone like me. I've probably ridden down these streets a hundred times before, cloaked in the darkness of night and the chill of winter. Each storefront, each sign, it's all quite familiar to me by now. I still take time out of my day to find something new. It's a healthy practice.
Tonight, I decide to rest my aching bones in a community garden, on the way home. Though fenced in and secured with a lock, the gate slips open as if it were expecting my intrusion. There are no benches for me to rest on, and so I take my seat on the rough, porous brick which lines each planter bed. The night is mild and the wind blows gently against my long hair, rustling the leaves of the various plants ever so gently.
I still taste the lavender tea we drank together those winter nights on your porch, and I feel the heat of the mug I held close to my chest, to warm my deadened fingers. A long time has passed since then, my beloved, and as much as I wish it was the case, I cannot now share those moments with you. Instead, I ride along the same roads I took to see you then, only now I pass by your house and wave to the window. There is no silhouette to greet me this time, and I ride past as quickly as I arrived. No use in sticking around.
My attention shifts from my memories and returns to the present. Outlined against the dark sky, the silhouette of a hawk descends upon a fir tree pasted across the tapestry of the night. The night sky is not nearly so blue as it used to be, now fading from yellow to orange to black. When we used to sit together while we ate crappy pastries we had made and sipped tea to warm our cold bodies, the sky was the dark, stygian blue of Neptune. I often remarked on this fact, to your amusment. You always wondered why I cared so much about the color of the sky. I never really did have an answer for you then, and I don't suppose I have one now, either. If I had to guess, I cared because it was something beautiful, and a beautiful thing should never go to waste. I've always liked that idea, though I've never been able to preserve all the beauty in my life. A consequence of being human, I suppose.
My attention turns once more to the garden I find myself in. I run my hands along the leaves which find themselves brushing against my body, and I let myself be enveloped by them. To be held by the plants is better than to not be held at all, I figure. As I breathe in and out, each calming breath bringing me closer to the brink of stability, I see it.
In a planter bed across the garden, I see two pea plants having outgrown their trellis. Instead of sagging back to the support of their frame, the two plants had grown against each other, each vine lifting the other higher, until the two had ascended quite far beyond the bounds of the wooden framework. I find such a thing an inspiring sight if not somewhat melancholy. Two vines, destined for more than they were given, providing each other the support they need to thrive.
And you. My darling, I think of you when I see this dance of chlorophyll and cellulose. We are much more than plants, you and I, but we are in essence quite similar to these snow peas. Despite our limiting trellis, we took each other by the hand and made our own support; our own destiny. We held each other aloft, unconcerned the only footholds beneath our feet were the ones we built ourselves.
But darling, as I see these plants, I cannot help but think what would happen if those plants were to unravel. Should they separate, what would be holding them up? Would both vines collapse with no partner to hold them aloft? Or would the reinforcement provided through the ages allow the vine to remain in place regardless of its partner?
I ponder this question as I stare into the night sky, the vine wrapped around me beginning to unravel.
The crunching of boots against the packed snow and ice upon the ground pushed back against the encroaching silence of the mountainside. At night, the mountaintop is usually quite a quiet place, the only sound being that of the wind whistling through the crags and brush which coat the hills. Tonight, though, the air hang stiller than usually; even the ever-howling wind gave some respite to the weary traveler upon the cliff face.
For Corbenic Leander Atlas, the moment was perfect for the climb. The moon, waning now, sat low in the sky, as though a beacon for the lost and rambling spirits who wandered the night. In his travels, Atlas had encountered many such Like spirits in the sky, the Aurora Borealis cast a sickly glow across the earth, illuminating the rocky terrain below. Lights stretched across the sky like great serpents, and for a moment Atlas wondered if the phenomenom appeared more ghostly or magical in nature. As he took a sip from his canteen, he pondered the question, but after he had sated his thirst he deemed the answer to this question far less important than the precious travel time it would cost to figure it out. The trail continued far into the dark, and Atlas had such precious little time to complete it.
And so, further on into the night, Atlas walked. He continued to walk, much as he always had, for many hours. From a young age he was one to walk simply for the sake of it, seeking no destination, just answers to questions he had not even begun to ponder. This instinct carried with him as he grew up, as his thirst for knowledge grew.
.
There is much one can learn by traveling and observing ones surroundings. If you are paying attention when traveling, many things have a way of revealing themselves to you. When perched on some isolated cliff face, being the only sentient being for miles in any direction, the inherent magic in the world tends to draw itself to you. If you find yourself in such a situation, pause for a moment. Some say on certain nights, when the sky shines bright, and the snow is fresh and clear, if you listen close, and you're a gracious host, the spirits then draw near. You can see them walking beside you, with light footprints in the snow.
On winter nights filled with ghostly light
Old innkeepers trade their tales;
Amidst deep snows and wind that blows
One story oft prevails;
On mountainside or great divide
the old legend remains the same;
An explorer of land, none have seen firsthand
But has gathered great acclaim.
In the Lands Unclean it is rarely seen for a ghost to make a show
The cold winter's bite and the mountain's height hide their specters in the snow.
But on certain nights when the moon is bright and the snow is fresh and clear;
If you listen close, and are a kind host, ancient spirits will appear.
Now the spirits rise, peering with glazed eyes; wanderers lost to the trail.
They will gather 'round, with unholy sound, each visage gaunt and pale.
Having lost their path they are quick to wrath and they must be given care;
But the new man found, whose knowledge abounds; too much for them to scare.
Each ghost looks ahead, to the one not dead; the stranger in heavy gear
And he seems to say, in his own strange way, you have nothing left to fear.
Now the ghosts do part, with a warmth in heart, to the man who brought them forth.
Then they step aside and no longer hide the bleak trail stretching North.
The man starts ahead, for it can be said, that each day out there is death
But the trails goes on, bested not by brawn, while Atlas mulls his last breath.
The ghosts beside him, still serve to guide him, doing what they could not do;
The spirits lead him far, 'neath the old North star; a passage straight and true.
As the tower looms, with tunnels and tombs, Atlas begins to slow
"I suppose that's that, trail ahead's quite flat," he seemed to truly know.
"I won't need you now, though I don't see how I've gone without a guide.
Those were vicious slopes, done with hempen ropes, and I nearly could have died."
Atlas turned to preach and he said to each, though their light was turning dim,
"Goodbye old friends, may we meet again, in a place that's not so grim."
While the spirits fade, their debt now paid, Atlas turns to look ahead;
With his goal now gone, a Vampyr's new pawn, all that remains is dread.
"Why did you do it?" the Oyster asked God.
The Oyster did not see the sand beneath its shell, nor did it feel the warmth with which the stunning patterns of silica below imparted upon it, nor did it hear the gentle whistling of the wind surrounding it, but it knew these things were there. How it knew them, it was not entirely sure. It did know that as far as the horizon stretched, this dazzling array of silicon and oxygen remained, and it continued far beyond the horizon, presumably until it wrapped back around to this very spot. On the surface of this Earth, naught remained but sand, save the two figures standing together on a lone dune.
God replied in his usual tone.
"Oyster, my old friend, you of all things should know this must be done. The sins of this earth were far too great to heal. With each passing day, the world became a more violent and lawless place, each fleeting moment bearing witness to some new act of cruelty, dreamt up by a deranged madman who has been given power over others. Again and again, ad infinitum. What once remained beneath our feet was soil soaked with the blood of billions, who had been carved, butchered, and treated to cruelty unmatched. Mankind, and the earth it once inhabited, have betrayed my trust, broken my bonds, excised my heart from all that is good, and made a mockery of all that I have set out to do.
I see all that is, and all that ever will be. I have seen standing here with you, together, as clearly as I see it now. I have seen what happens when we no longer stand together, and all that will ever occur past that point in time. I have seen every single moment of cruelty and barbarity this earth has inflicted upon its residents, and its residents have inflicted upon each other. Each time, I feel what they feel, in the moments of their deepest despair, and I cannot help but weep. Divinity does not save one from the suffering of the world."
"Divinity does not save one from responsibility," said the Oyster, the blazing sun glinting off its shell. "At some point, you must contend with the fact that your sins outnumber their own."
.
God did not respond. The only sound heard was that of the gently whistling wind, blowing grains of sand into the indent in the desert the Oyster had once occupied. Soon enough, the sand was undisturbed once again, leaving no trace of its former inhabitant, and God walked into the setting sun.
The icy chill of winter is not often denied, or at least not forever. Some cultures personify this absence of heat as a man, something more human than the glacial force of nature. Old Man Winter, Boreas, Jack Frost: all figures created to represent the season of winter, and the freezing chill that comes with it. In other words, vain attempts to put a face to the utterly unfeeling force of nature that is the ever-gnawing cold.
If cold was a man, however, that man would be walking on the slopes of the arched backbone of the world; the mountains which loomed over the valley of Tuskini. This being of cold would be walking next to another man, this one very real. Atlas had found himself upon the slopes once more, the biting cold an ever-present danger.
Atlas had been here before, or so he felt. He had never set foot on these particular slopes, or even this mountain range, but the way in which the wind blew around him and the way the chill burned in his hands, he felt as though he had suffered the same way before. He kept his eyes ahead- any misstep and he could lose his life, after all. Even so, the found it hard to concentrate on the trail ahead. Occasionally, he would see rocks that were not there, or even footprints, faintly visible in the snow, leading nowhere.
Atlas was, by this point, no stranger to the games that the chilled wasteland played on his senses, and decided to attribute these odd occurences to the environment in which he found himself. As the temperature dropped, Atlas' motions became moe sluggish, and his mind began to race. Even he was not truly accustomed to the freezing cold wind which buffeted these mountaintops, and all of him was suffering the effects.
And yet, he continued to walk. He walked as if he had no other option, as in his mind, he did not. There was nothing to him except the trail ahead. One step, and then the next. The wind became too harsh to look into, and Atlas reluctantly diverted his eyes to the ground. He knew this was a horribly bad idea, but he could no longer continue to hold his head high. It was a relief to him to take his focus from the howling winds above, no longer blowing ice shards into his eyes.
This relief was quite short-lived. As Atlas focused on the snow below his feet, he began to see footprints. These footprints were quite surprising to an experienced mountaineer like himself.
Why are you here?
It's a chilly spring morning, and the ocean's fog still hangs heavy in the air. You can taste the salt in the air, on your lips, crystallizing against your skin. It feels like if you would sit down and let the elements do their work, you would be encased by it; your body covered in a fragile crust of sea salt, a tasty treat for the local wildlife. In another time, perhaps this would have been an appealing option to you, but not today.
The first thing your eyes fall upon is an iron sign, marking the land ahead as private. "No Trespassing," it proclaims harshly, to no one in particular. It stands as a sentry, blocking your path as best it can with its sheet metal body. It, like you, has suffered greatly from the elements. The salt in the air has caused much of the low-quality iron sheetmetal to rust and wither away. Some letters are falling off, and in due time the sign will lose its voice, though it is still able to be understood today. You turn and ponder the sign further. Watching the sign scream its message into the world, slowly letting the salt and the water eat away at its body until it finally goes hoarse, you think about the times you had fruitlessly shouted your messages into the void. Was it worth it now?
As the sign and its message slowly leaves the forefront of your mind, the space it once occupied is slowly replaced with the creeping thought that you do not remember how exactly you got here. This thought normally would distress you, you think, but for a reason beyond your understanding you feel nothing but unwavering calm.
The salty air hangs heavy, clouds of mist blowing further into the woods.
The sign remains, standing sentinel on the path ahead. For all its voice and presence, it has no real power over you. It, at the end of things, is simply a sheet of pressed iron, with a message painted on, having no real obligations owed to its presence. As such, you pass by, brushing your hand against the rough rust coating. The sign does not object. It simply stands as it always has, shouting its message to the world.
You leave the sign behind, naught but a passing memory in a new world; a world which seems more and more alien as time goes on, yet crushingly familiar. The weight of this familiarity presses down with your footfalls as you ascend the hill ahead. Below you lies a small ocean town, something you have seen many times in your journeys up and down the Pacific coast. Each ocean town seems to have a similar set of features, all of which you see here in this place. Houses with faded, peeling paint, an abundance of sailboats with their masts creaking in the wind, and an empty main street. Though towns like this usually aren't busy, this place in particular seems exceptionally quiet and still. It unnerves you.
The fog seems to hug you a little tighter, the air becoming just a little more scarce as you try to breathe. It seeps its way into your lungs, though it is not obvious whether it is the air or the slow welling of fear inside your chest that truly hinders your ability to breathe. You're not entirely sure from what this fear is borne, but it begins to chill you further.
The fog grows thicker still. It seems to muffle all noise except for the creaking of the masts of sailboats, cold aluminum against rusted iron. Perhaps no noise is muffled at all, and you are simply enveloped in silence. Either way, the oppressive quiet becomes too much for you, and you begin to walk down the main street, slowly at first, until you break into a full sprint heading to the sea.
Your footfalls echo through the silent town; soundwaves ricchocheting between uninhabited homes and empty storefronts, inevitably making their way back to your ears. The shock reverberates through your ankles and shins, the asphalt streets giving no quarter to your tired legs. Eventually, the asphalt turns to sand, and you begin to slow. Your chest heaves, gasping for air, as you look up to the sea and scan the horizon. Across the water, you see a spread of carcasses, but these carcasses are not the decaying bodies of whales or stinking corpses of fish. Instead, these corpses are the creaking remains of the greatest creatures to ever sit upon the sea: hulking wrecks of container ships, barges, and submarines. Metal paneling floats amongst the seaweed, alongside great burning oil slicks spreading like moss across an old stone. Thick, oily clouds of smoke rise above the sea, only to be torn asunder by the whipping wind.
You hear seagulls, crackling flames, and the gentle rush of the waves upon the shore. These sounds are constant, unchanging, infinitely repetitive. One noise you cannot hear amongst the natural symphony is that of man. The cold and empty town now makes more sense in your mind: there is no more presence of mankind in this place, save yourself. For what reason you are here when all others are gone, you do not know, nor do you attempt to ponder.
You think back to the decaying sign on the trail all that time ago. Though it was, in reality, only moments ago you were facing this sign, the concept of time has begun to lose its meaning. To you, it feels as if it had been years since the sign stood in your path. Staring out to sea now, the crumbling hulks of mankind's innovation occupy the same dark corner of your mind as the sign did, both projecting their messages into the world until they finally collapse, creeping corrosion and the inevitability of nature taking its toll. Is this all we leave behind? A legacy of rust and silent screams?
You are no different than the sign or the ships, you know. Have you brought more into this world than a slow rust? In the end, were you ever anything more than an iron sign?
You sit down on the sand, letting the salt and the sea envelop you for the final time.
Atlas was shaken out of his near-stupor by the impact of shattering ice against a nearby stone. Icefalls are not a uncommon occurence high enough on mountains, especially ones with winds as high as these, but something about the way this ice shattered unnerved Atlas. He ducked, just in time to avoid another chunk of ice shattering against a nearby rock, spalling across the surrounding snow. He was sure of it this time: someone, or something, was looking to have him killed.
Atlas was not new to this kind of situation. The highest mountains hold the hardiest of creatures, and many do not take kindly to an uninvited guest to their mountain homes. As the surrounding blizzard began to pick up intensity, Atlas can barely make out the sound of creaking above the whipping winds.
Warm wind against the gently swaying branches.
It's barely windy though still noticable to someone like yourself. Wind always registers more sensitively against your skin, and especially in circumstances like this. Right now, your brain aches for as many sensations as it can recieve. You've deprived yourself for too long.
Warmth. Real warmth this time, brought on by the sun on your face and reflecting off the water far below.
You're not used to warmth like this. It's too… natural. For too long, your warmth has come from unnatural, dangerous sources. The warmth of a body, distant and drowned out, or the warmth of a bonfire, lit on the remains of what could have been.
You blink your eyes a few times. The light is intense but not unbearable. You're not used to this brightness.
You find yourself wobbling, and reach a hand to your side to catch your swaying body. Your hand reaches a branch, and you feel the rough, dusty texture of the tree bark underneath. Some scales detach with your grip. The tree does not seem to mind. It's seen far, far worse than you in its many years overseeing this pond, and bears the weight of its many injuries on its aging body. Now, though, it only holds your weight.
It's a beautiful day.
Is it only yours?
As you attempt to reorient yourself, you hear a laugh from higher up the tree. Swinging around to try and find where this laughter manifested from, you see her. She's further up the tree, face painted with mirth, looking down at you while you strugglewith your new environment. Her features are familiar, reminiscent of those who came before, but tinted by the golden light of the sun instead of shrouded in darkness.
You smile back.
She points out to the pond below, and to a specific clearing. Inside this shaded grove, two indiscernable shapes stir within the foliage. Before long, two deer leap out, eager to frolic in the relative safety of this shallow sunlit pond. There is no danger here, as there is no need for there to be. This place simply is. The deer don't ponder, nor do they hesitate. They bound out into the gentle caress of the sunlight, with no care for what dangers may await them in this new environment.
You envy the deer. Since that night all that time ago, you've had to learn to watch your back. Look over your shoulder. To check for any danger, even if you're safe at home. The last time you though you were safe, well… No need to dwell on it. You sit and watch the pond with her, as you exchange words of kindness together. None will hear except the two of you, the trees, and the birds.
Perhaps it's better that way.
It's nighttime now.
It has been a long time since that day by the pond, at least a few weeks, and you sit under the sky with her once more. It's a wonder you're here with her in the first place - you don't often trust for long.
But she's different. She has to be. Why else would you feel this way?
It's no use to ponder that right now. Never has been. Instead, you sit with her and watch as the sky lights up above the both of you, patterns of light weaving hypnotically through the sky. She laughs, still filled with the same mirth. You cannot help but laugh with her. To you, the joy of the situation is far too much to contain. And, after all, you are free to laugh now. Though the shackles that hold you down from true love and joy are still present, just for a moment, you forget about their weight upon your arms.
Far above, in that inky void, the moon sits silent in the sky. It's to your back now, and brighter than ever. And yet? You don't seem to mind.
The moon shines on, but you remain.
Come, sit down a moment, will you? Enjoy the stars with me.
They often ask why I go out at night. Why I am so eager to abandon the pleasures of the day for the cold embrace of dark skies, dark water, dark lights. I often wonder what to tell them.
Because I am not sure, really, what drives me to find my peace in the setting sun and the inky skies it leaves behind. I've pondered this question many a day, and yet I have still been unable to find any concrete answer. Is it even worth wondering?
They tell me it's lonely, it's cold, it's no place for someone like you. They wonder what I even do out there, why I'm gone for so long and at such odd intervals. They worry.
It's an odd feeling to have someone worry about you. It's almost comforting, in a way, to know that someone cares enough about you to worry. And yet at the same time you feel so bad for hurting them, even though you know you'll be okay.
I'm sorry.
Can I ask you a question?
Have you ever sat by the sea? Seen the waves crash against the rocks below you, knowing they would continue to do so for millenia after you were gone? Have you felt the beauty in the futility of it? Mankind against the incomparably ancient oceans. No wonder Atlantis fell beneath the waves.
While you were sitting, have you seen the strings of fetid kelp dragged along within the tides, only brought to the surface by the roiling waves? It's a wonder they're even dragged along at all. Apparently, the glue that holds kelp to rocks is one of the strongest adhesives in the world. Although, when you think about it, they could be ten times stronger. The sea always wins in the end.
Did you sit and watch the sun set below the horizon? The Pacific coast is wasted on you if you haven't. When the sun finally melts below the waters, it leaves behind a beautiful
very end
A paradise and a prison are stark opposites, obviously. But if the night is dark enough, who can tell the difference?
I found you on the riverbank. It was a relatively cold morning, and I had woken up early to see the sun rise above the trees down by the river. I had not expected to see anything more than the early birds stirring in the first rays of the sun, but you were there nonetheless. I wondered if you had been waiting there for me.
You were a ragged, tattered thing. You looked ghastly: your skin falling off in chunks, eyes long since glazed over, jaw twisted and contorted into some vicious mockery of what I could see you had once been. You were surrounded by the stench of death and decay. Whether it came from you or your decomposing compatriots, I will never know. Even surrounded by the dead, you still clung to life, hanging on to whatever pathetic existence gently flopping on the bank of the river provided for you. And yet? You carried the aura of something majestic, something magical, though little majesty remained in you now. Your twisted, lean muscles and massive body still remained, even as the skin and flesh which made them up continued to slough off into the waters which you called your home.
I knelt down before you. I'm not sure why, only that I knew that you must have something to teach me. In your last moments, though you could not speak, and I could not truly know, we talked for a while, in a way that only a dying creature and its witness can.
When I spoke to you, I saw a tiny thing, which I can only presume to be you a long time ago, struggling with all its might against a sea of gravel in which it is buried. A small thing such as yourself looked as if it could not stand against the veritable boulders which surrounded it, but you persisted. Though it cost you nearly all your energy, you managed to break free of your gravel prison, and emerged out into the waters of the cold swift river which surrounded you. Though you were nearly expended, there was no time to rest for you. You had one singular goal burning in your mind, one great passion, and that goal lay at the end of this river.
You grew quickly and with great strength as you braved the rapids of the river. As you grew strong and powerful, like your father before you, (though you never knew him) your scales began to glisten like a suit of silvery armor. Your muscles grew thick and strong in preparation for what was to come ahead. You had never seen anything outside of this river, but you knew your final destination was going to test you like you had never been tested before.
The day you finally made it to the ocean was the happiest day of your life. Through the small river, which had always seemed so large before now, to the crowded estuary, past the delta- now, you were here. It was no exaggeration to say that you had never imagined there to be so much water in the whole wide world. But here you were, and now it was your home.
There's a certain freedom that comes with the sea. There remained no instinctual path for you to follow, simply the drive to become the strongest you could be. And you did, with great zeal. The fish learned to fear you just as you feared the sharks and tuna and halibut which stalked your feeding grounds. You fed and you fed and you fed, evading particularly confident predators as you did so. You became the largest of your fleet, and defended them when you could. Though you were outmatched by the greater creatures of the sea, you held fast and strong as you always had. Once, you even managed to fend off a marlin from taking you as its next meal.
And you still grew. You spent years in those tragically empty yet shockingly bountiful waters buidling your strength, for some grand and terrible purpose which you still did not fully comprehend. You felt the compulsion, growing like a magnetic pulling in your mind, grow stronger and stronger with each passing day. It felt almost as if you were but a marionette, puppeted on the invisble strings of your own instinct.
The day you left those waters was the day you changed for good. You had been changing before that, though, slowly and nearly imperceptibly. But you were changing nonetheless. Your jaw became twisted, rent open into a more grotesque thing, while you wondered what these changes meant for you. Your body began to save its energy, storing fuel in fat around your body. You knew not why it did this, only that it was necessary. When you left the sea, you soon found out why.
The magnetic pullling in your mind had gone from puppet strings to needles. Those needles in your brain pulled you along, out from the sea and its vast, beautiful expanse, and back to the nurturing water which once gave you the strength to survive. Only now, these waters were different. Instead of fostering a growing body, they ripped and pulled against your scales, threatening to drag you back to the sea you had come from. But you were hardened and tough. You were stronger than the water, than all the forces Mother Nature could throw at you to keep you from reaching your goal. You were the best, and you intended to make that clear to all that stood in your way.
And so, you fought. Day in and day out, you fought against the current. Your powerful muscles and stored energ propelled you forward like an organic spacecraft, adrift through a raging river instead of a calm vacuum. You made slow and steady progress, passing through by the estuaries and streams which nurtured you in your youth. When the rocks of a waterfall impeded your progress, you lept into the air to surpass it, avoiding the gaping maws of predators looking to cut your journey short. While you were aloft, you often though about your place and your purpose. You had reached no conclusion so far, only that there was so much more left for youto experience. You could tell your time was running short, though.
On a winter evening, the waters began to slow to a gentle crawl, and you made your way forward, resting as much as you could. The journey had taken so much out of you, leaving you a shell of your former self. Your scales and flesh had been ablated away as you were dashed against the rocks, your body had atrophied as it consumed itself to keep you moving, and your eyes had already gone dim. As you contemplated your fate, you began to feel the rushing of water arround you. Though with your fading vision it was nearly impossible to see in the darkening night, you could smell the arrival of your compatriots from years ago, all having made the same journey. They surrounded you, a swarm of dying flesh and flickering eyes, yet filled with unmistakeable mirth. This was your purpose.
And that is where I found you. The night had passed, and you had fulfilled your purpose, and before you had been snuffed out by the unavoidable march of death, I found you flopping on this riverbank. Do you not regret it? The course in life you fought so hard for, only to have your end as a sad, pathetic death on the same gravel you were once birthed from?
I could not hear you speak it, but I know it was said all the same.
Despite your decay and your rot, despite the hardship you faced, and despite the unceremonious nature of your end, you were proud. And that is all that mattered.
I went to grab my lunch from the car. When I returned, only a corpse remained of the proud salmon you had once been. I think it's fitting you passed with no one to witness. I think it's what you would have wanted.