You feel your head exploding.
You hold the edge of the welkinwood tightly. The wind on your knuckles is starting to numb your hand and weaken your grip. The air is warm, but you are travelling at speed. You put home behind you as if away in a shoulder bag in your mind. Thoughts pile into the bag uncontrollably, burying each other, entombing your heart. The wind had tickled your arms and the little hairs on them at the beginning, now it just feels like another shirt sleeve you’ve been wearing. The world is like that, a skin that you wear.
The half-veil that protects your nose and mouth softly teases your neck. Sand hits your goggles an
Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Salmon of Wisdom by neophytegod, literature
Literature
Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Salmon of Wisdom
I didn't plan on eating the salmon of wisdom. But I did, accidentally. If I had known how easy it was to eat the fish, I'd truly have been more inclined to do it purposefully, and pretend it happened exactly as it had. But I did not. And I did eat it.
My master had searched for the thing for longer than I had known about its existence, for longer even than my master had known about mine. And he had been there at my birth. He was not a fisherman, but he labored with that river long enough that he should have been, were it not for the obsession that undermined the experience.
We had been fishing that day, just as we did most days, sitting on