Old Black Mingo Keep on Rollin’
I can’t see around the bend in the black water. Does that really matter? The next bend in life is a mystery, too, but that doesn’t stop me from living it.
Most days, anyway.
Some mornings, I can’t put one foot on the floor. The walls of my bedroom crush in on me, and lifting my head is a physical impossibility. I can’t swim through the black water to the other side.
That’s why I’m here. Outdoors. Standing on the glassy edge of Black Mingo Creek. Because riding an upper makes me a daredevil. A stuntman who wants to paddle through the quiet of a Southern swamp in a kayak with a canvas frame. Hear the drip of the blades as they cut through the tannic water. Smell the brackish tinge of sea miles inland. Look for turtles sunning themselves along submerged tree branches. Snap pictures of bald eagles nesting high up in the cypress trees, their knuckled trunks fanning out in waves to grip the earth, disappearing along the edges of the water.
Demons live in Black Mingo. Ghosts of who-knows-what. When I submerge my hand an inch in that scudding liquid, I can’t even see my digits. Cypress stains the water the color of black tea. Who knows what could be hidden just under the surface? Why, things that are older than time itself.
My daredevil is out to find a demon. A black spirit to take my pain away. To scrub me clean. I’m going to make it to the other side of this thing.
This week’s series of fiction is set in historic Black Mingo Swamp. To read more about the history of Black Mingo, click here. Thank you for reading, for commenting and for sharing my blog.