Whatever Lola Wants by George Szanto

Author:George Szanto
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-927366-36-3
Publisher: Brindle & Glass
Published: 2014-09-08T16:00:00+00:00

IMMUNE

Then the earth was alert, bones braced,

thymus of rock ready,

lymphic streams ready.

Virus Radiation Bacteria Cancer.

Number uncountable,

power nigh infinite,

through sores and lacerations

the antigens invade the earth.

Attack, maim, rot, kill.

Fungi Chemicals Parasites.

Where are the rivers of monocytes,

where the macrophages of liberation,

where the cleansing filtering sands?

R.F. June 1–4/03

4.

After supper Carney drove off to fish Gambade Brook. “Work your way upstream from the covered bridge,” Milton had told him. “Too much activity ’round the Grange.” Carney liked Milton, gruff but gentle. Especially compared with Theresa.

At the bridge he pulled off the road. Tomorrow he’d check out Terramac, meet Cochan. Despite all the invective, nothing said about the place sounded damning, and blasting was an inevitable precursor to construction. He felt irritated, letting Milton rope him in. The fishing better be good.

No wind. He worked his way upstream. After a hundred yards sweat had drenched his shirt, but the ache in his leg seemed gone. Now every might-be mama mosquito within fifty feet needed Carney blood. An oozing film of repellent coated his hands and face, his neck to chest and shoulder blades. He was the essence of repulsion but still the mosquitoes whined blood blood blood!

Fly rod in hand, tackle bag over his shoulder, he searched for deeper pools in the low water. He was a believer in solunar tables, charts of times when fish and animals are most active in their foraging, and by the book a period of major activity began twenty minutes ago. The mosquitoes were proof positive. And a mayfly hatch was in progress—he saw the swirls of an occasional trout feeding where the surface lay quiet. Over half an hour he had eight solid strikes, took and released three good fish, two browns and a rainbow. He called it a first-class brook if the little ones stayed away till their elders finished eating.

He followed the bone-dry shoreline over rocks and silt, stepping into the flow mainly to cool his feet. He waved mosquitos away from his eyes. On the stream’s ledges hairy moss had dehydrated to gray. He reached a run draining a long pool beside a field of grass and flowers. Across, an angled maple overhung half the stream. A dark, pretty place.

Still the mosquito monsters swarmed, inches from his face; a stand-off. He examined the pool. The mosquitoes gathered tighter, hovering by his eyelids where the repellent lay thinnest, ready to attack his eyeballs if he stopped blinking.

He felt a buzz in his chest: Mot, his seventh sense, foreboding activated. But years of fishing pleasure spoke louder: go on, there’s a couple of good fish down in there.

Half a dozen dragonflies darted over, gorging themselves on mosquitoes. He waited, one distraction at a time for these trout. The bushes lay far enough back to make careful casting possible. He set his bag down and whipped the fly, a just-hatching mayfly larva imitation, to the head of the run. But he set it down badly; Mot’s buzz must be throwing his timing off. He twitched the fly downstream, some underwater spurts.

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