In which great beasts leave only their wake in the sky (Tales of the Mosaic - 338 words)
Tessera
Where Once the Canvas Fish Fly
Sometimes, still bright-eyed children look to the horizon, just after sunset to see the twinkling gleam of distant streamers and kites.
Story goes that the kitemongers— the wives of sky trawlers— let loose the cloth-clad frames for good luck the night before voyages. Each cord was adorned with stamped coins or smooth-edged shards of root mead bottles, wrapped in prayer cards and scrolls with holes that sang to deaf gods. For those in particular need of luck, opalescent pearls clung to the heart of the kite, where the frame crossed and was bound together.
Luck never seemed to be on the sky trawlers' side, however; it was more likely their lumbering beasts would return with a snapped mizzenmast, or with bent harpoons than enough canvas fish to justify the ordeal.
The government vessels often picked clean the skies; the scraps left in their wake were split between the crews of seasoned, cataracted captains, street rat orphans with stomachs filled with hardtack and sawdust, or simply those that had nowhere else to be at all.
The parents look on with their children; there was once a time where one could see the iridescent streaks of canvas fish as they hopped between the smog-scarred blanket of fractus clouds. In their heyday, a trawler's vessel could lie in wait, concealed under the curve of the cumulus, and collect enough to feed their family for a year. Now, only an eerie hollow reverberates among the mist, and the damp, weary eyes of those who feel as though they should have died out with their quarry look on in sorrow.
But, on nights like these, they say if you find just the right hill or steeple or rooftop, cup your hands, and look out towards the kites, you can hear the distant calls of the missing giants. On nights like these, one may look to the kites, and slide their eyes slightly to the right at the stars, and wonder what it would be like if they never left the sky at all.