debrajean

I remember that time in color, winters gray and the blistered pink of a frostbitten hand, summers, greens that had been rubbed in thick black dirt. I can smell the summer, mostly that same black dirt and green, the tiger lilies sprouting from years unused coal piles as the creek drifted by...but we never called it a creek it was a crick, and a dirty one at that. Years of abuse had left its water cool glow to be deceiving, it was as unpalatable to your insides as chewing on a old tin can with a bit of bean stuck inside might have been. Rumor also had it that if you stuck just a toe in its illusory depths you would draw back a foot that could compete with apes in its hair content. Coal dust destroyed everything in that place, it had settled in a fine web no one could get free of.