We walk towards the fire. It is quiet. The light flickers through the trees. I see 3 people, their faces glowing orange. I don’t recognize them. They have that worn-down 28-year-old country boy look going on. Leathery skin, tight blue jeans, and hats sticking straight up in the damned air, proud.
My body feels good in the water. It feels strong there. It feels like power. Certain power.
Writing about feeling powerful in this body, using this body to be athletic, isn’t special. It isn’t special except that I am a woman. I am a curvy woman. I do not look particularly muscular. I do not look particularly strong. I actually look and feel, when I’m being touched, soft. Soft.
I’ve been a swimmer as long as I can remember. I’ve been in water my whole life. I was raised on, bathed in, and left to wander the banks of the Tygart River.
This piece is closer to a poem but I’m going to call it a distilled narrative. I don’t write much poetry and I’m sure folks who do write poetry will scoff. I’m sure I’ve missed something important, some opportunity in the language or structure. I must have missed something because I submitted this to a zine maker and it was rejected. Rejection sucks. But I know deep down that rejection is part of this game. And I still get to publish my own work and see it mean something to someone, even if that someone isn’t the someone who decides to accept or reject it for whatever publication. Anyhow, enjoy this poor little reject. A Distilled Narrative: Weekends At Dad’s.
My retelling of the infamous Goatman Story featured on CreepyPasta. Another version also exists on Reddit in this thread. I chose to revise this story with slight tweeks, similar to the oral tradition of the folklore/ghost story/legend genre. This is the scariest thing I’ve ever read and I wanted to share it with you. It should be noted that while my telling of this story is fiction, it is one of hundreds from around the world that have similar details and accounts from all different cultures, landscapes, and backgrounds that have been passed down and carried on generation after generation. When something is perpetuated across the globe, I can’t help but think there must be some truth at the core of the tale.
The bus windows are already down as we cram on and sit in our usual spots. I have my knees up against the seatback in front of me. I’m sprawled out. I’ve been sitting by myself since Tuck got sick. The bus rumbles a little and starts moving out of the parking lot. I’m thinking about him today. Maybe it’s the warm air or the smell of the healthy diesel mixed with spring coming in through the rectangular windows.
This piece was written for Samuel Taylor Photography. See more great stuff at his website, www.samueltaylorphoto.com and Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/samueltaylorphoto/
This piece was written for Samuel Taylor Photography. See more great stuff at his website, www.samueltaylorphoto.com and Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/samueltaylorphoto/
I recently stumbled upon my thesis. I completed it for my undergrad in 2012. It’s an analysis of Julien Nitzberg’s 2009 documentary The Wild and Wonderful Whites and Debra Granik’s drama Winter’s Bone. I talk about isolation and fatalism and the hillbilly trope and being liminal. It was the first time I sat down and dug into something really important to me that also happened to deal with academia. I’m still proud of the work I did here. I hope you find it interesting and that it changes your mind, even a tad.
