MeatCanyon

For me.

Every clerk, every shopkeeper, every conversation has become blighted with worry and superstition.

The docks are emptier than anyone has ever known.

Many veteran tamers of the waves are reluctant to face the tide that has claimed so many.

Gone are the days of children chasing gulls across the shore, faces smudged with brine and glee.

Gone are the days of gathering feasts of music and bonfires and old tales shouted over cider and boiled crab.

I lived here most of my life, a family hailing from distant shores, braced against the gales that can batter our cottages.

The salted wind has carved lines into my young face and the sun has nearly faded my eyes, watching the place I was born into tingle itself up like seaweed clinging to a hole.

I might have been the first to break.

Had someone not stolen the privilege?

on a fog-coated afternoon within the warm walls of our local watering hole.

"'Ah!

I'll tell this whole damn room for naught, lads!'

Rafe had shouted from his piss-stained corner booth, wafting in an odorous bubble of beer with his weary crew.

And ye know well who's brung it about!'

Zrand quickly earned the attention of the crowded room, and he noticed, reveling in the attention.

When first young and washed up, no, a day later.

His eyes met the room of trunk, curious listeners.

I say in whatever foul beast he brought to me.

All right.