Dopecentury XIII --- Swampland
This short fiction is part of Dopecentury, an experimental project where I attempt to channel the aural aesthetics of Dopesmoker into written text. (Dopesmoker is the legendary stoner-doom metal masterpiece by the band Sleep, of which it is said: “the monotony rarely becomes tedious.”) My plan is to listen to the single hour-long track of Dopesmoker while writing each of these “Dopecentury” entries. And repeat that 100 times. See the Dopecentury project page for more details.
Fetid water Black and oily, light does not penetrate it The water is all slick black surface Turbid below, saturated with dissolved particles of decaying plant matter A swimmer could touch the bottom, but would not want to The bottom that could be touched is mud, many meters deep A stone, a weight dropped in would sink right through the bottom, and continue sinking into the ever-thickening mud, maybe forever? In places, bubbles rise up through the water, to pop with a slow cadence and small sound on the surface
Black trees, growing together in density The trees grow up out of the black water Wide roots like fat fingers that spread out for stability in the shallow water and the soft deep mud The roots grow down as far as the limbs grow up, like a two-headed mushroom Fungus, mosses, small leafy plants, and invertebrates cling to the roots of each tree Above and below the waterline, each root is a community of the decrepit and slimy base of the food chain, waiting to be plucked off the roots to feed some larger and more significant creature Without these sad communities, nothing would live here
So much lives here long whipping snakes and fat crapulent snakes resting on the protruding roots of trees or hanging down from branches above large flat turtles, mostly seen by a bump of a nose above the water surface slimy fish that remain invisible in the black water until their lips suck down an insect from the water and leave behind spreading rings alligator eyes — always just the eyes frog eyes, like miniature versions of the alligators small mammals that paddle back and forth across the water leaving streaming Vs to mark their trail
Hermits living in isolated huts Built up on stilts over the water Rusting metal roof Thin clapboard walls A small dock of rotting wood out front A small wooden boat tied up to the dock desiccated fish drying on a rack A cold lantern hanging from a roof corner Smoke off a metal chimney pipe sits in the air above the hut without dispersing
In some places, hermit communities Huts crammed in among the trees Connected by walkways of wood that run back and forth just over the water Nails in the boards the work their way up and catch the feet of people moving on the walkways
A small store in one corner of the hermit community A porch out front with a slumping roof People sitting on boxes and barrels and rickety chairs Smoking and exhaling a haze that does not move out from under the porch A rusting fanboat around back, loaded with boxes of cans to supply the store inventory
Sun streams down through the trees Sun heats the black water Vapor rises up from the surface and sits there No breeze to move the mist Damp air slips along slowly between the trees, moving by convection alone
The wet mist finds a path that leads through the swamp A wider space carved by dredges Still hemmed closely in by the black trees on either side Follow the mist up the dredged way It opens onto a place of oil derricks Pumpjacks slowly rise and fall sucking oil up from below the swamp Rusting iron tanks collect the oil A nest of rotting greasy hoses connects the tanks to small barges Flares burn off from steel towers that rise above the treeline A dead turtle thumps against the hollow hull of the barge
A man on the store porch smokes his cigarette down to his fingertips He leans back and flick his arm and the butt goes aflame as it flies The butt lands in a patch of oil floating on the surface of the black water and ignites it The flame spreads for a few meters and licks at the roots of one of the black trees The roots char and blacken The slimy communities of the fingerling roots flee