Exercise 110: Sweet and Sour

We stop off on the side of the backwater road to eat a sandwich and stretch our legs; it's been almost six hours since we had a moment to take a breath, to look up from the maps and soothe the cricks in our spines. I have been here before. This is where we stop every trip, by this creek. It's a designated 'nature spot', according to my friend; he unfolds a towel from the trunk of his Peugeot 407, spreads it on the ground and drops down, a sub sandwich in hand. I am not hungry; instead I trudged to the edge of the creek to take a closer look.

The water is dense with algae, the color and texture of raw sewage. I have the distinct feeling that if I run my hand through the water it will come up coated with oil, dripping with shit and God only knows what else. The mere thought makes my hand feel dirty; I wipe it on the front of my trousers. It's not comforting. In fact, afterwards I feel worse. So I turn my attention elsewhere, to the jagged broken teeth of a dam rising up out of the water, creating a porous foam. It is the scum on a pot of coffee, brewed improperly. The dank color of the water only adds to this illusion. How long has this place been maltreated, ignored? The dam is clogged with trash, like spinach caught in teeth. It triggers a memory, one that I don't have the time or the patience to examine.

Overhead, the trees create a pattern not unlike decay in skin; bubbling and disgusting, patches of necrotic green against a sky the color of dishwater. This place is the sort that J. W. Waterhouse might have chosen to depict a maiden in, ages ago, but the light is weak. It rambles like the words of a demented old man, down between the cancerous leaves. It gives every impression of wanting to simply stop, but the constant and unrelenting pressure of gravity forces it. Weak, but heavy: The weight of the decrepit dragging down the strong, a withered limb on an otherwise strong torso. The weeds by the water's edge are molded, limp and slumped over, their heads under the surface, dragged down by the slow ooze of the creek.

Even turning to my friend offers no relief. Oil drips down his chin, onto the shirt that cost more than I make every month in the job he secured for me; there is lettuce hanging down from the sub, threatening a swan dive to a towel already spotted with tomatoes and a slab of meat like the entrails of a sacrifice. Bark falls off trees, like scabs, to spot the false-looking Astroturf grass. I need light--not the false, vague and watery light from above. And here, in the French countryside, I begin to think there is nowhere I can get it.

Challenge: Describe a natural setting from the viewpoint of someone who has just lost a parent after a bitter fight. 500 words