Freddy Ryan is a writer based in Montréal, Quebec. Her piece "Wetlands" is inspired by a thought that came to her whilst on a walk: What is presence without a little conflict?
I am nothing but wetlands, from the souls of my feet to the palms of my hands. I have reached nothing but wetlands. Wilted talk weighs on my limbs, not unlike winter weighs on seasonal spring. I ought not to stand another hallway observation. A creature of intuition is crawling upon my skin, tending the floods within lands unbeknownst. Flakey and dazed, I began the race. Followed handles and signs, covered mirrors and clouds. Now the staircase is leading me bound. Here on out, I find, there are polished and curated grounds, and statues no one knows about. Horses and knights lay on the ground. A defeated battle of elegant divide. Staircases and gates are placed around. They inhabit a cool presence, as that of a broken bride. My fingers cover my eyes, for which I have known trouble, but dream of demise. I twirl in glee and think to me, I am the rough breccia of this forest ought to be. Nothing of a rare kind, but I persist to the ground. A heavy attraction. A grounded nature of tropical fever. I boil and bubble the soil woven at dawn. Surely, I am the one to which the wetlands belong. Bring me thought and something you sought, I will mould into the one that you want. Through and out, drylands erode and frail, to then never let go. One would only fail if it loved any other land than the one of its own. Perhaps if I stared, until I sank, further away from that sold clay, I would acquire such notice. But I remain the other gauge mislaid. Covering corners that encounter various times of day. I am left sipping on undetermined dirt roads and garnished plates of cuffed throws and poisonous prose. One must braid these breaths into poetry and turn these long and anguished streams of ever-flowing reverie into eventual serenity. A tapestry where talk would sway into convincing acts and peaceful pacts. I now can see; I was far too tender for this contending scene. How long can one belong when all the wetlands are gone?
Beautifully written ! Now I'm crying. Need to read more of you.