1st November 2020

There is a very particular kind of light that falls upon a specific shade of standing water than fashions in my mind the memory of that sprite whom, before my gaze and with my blessing, would rise up and drag unsuspecting, antagonizing playmates beneath the chill sanctuary of the locks surface. Playing in the shadows of those enormous moss encrusted wooden gates was strictly forbid, for the understandable fear of the sudden swell of water that so easily could cause a boat to founder, sucking down any passenger, to be regurgitated some distance hence bloated and lifeless.

The sprite was an addition of mine own invention, crafty, calculating, a suitable companion to a singularly lonely child much inclined to dark depressive moments that appeared as if from nowhere and would last till restitution was offered and taken. I miss his long and frightful face, the webbed and taloned fingers menacingly stretching forth upon each sinewy hand, my protector, my loyal and vengeful doppelgänger, realizer of my every wish, nemesis to my foes.