We sang the mining shanty at chorus time: the sound of a drill going down down into the ground, the gritty grey of the miners’ faces docile for the sweet dark tea and the hardest of biscuits; the minor key came out wailing. We sang of rivers taking away the dead in oily whorls, reeds damaged by the cold winds of February, crows flapping wings but never flying up, shoes made of boxes and sooty wagons. We sang refrains tasting of burned branches but the drill found nothing valuable: maybe veins like the wings of old flies in the shale.

Marianne Rossant is a teacher, cook, and writer.  Particularly nomadic, she’s moved a lot so she has a light footprint. She grew up primarily in NYC and France, and lived in California, too.  Marianne is interested in fairy tales, flash fiction, and food.  She lives now in the Hudson Valley, in upstate New York, where she likes to ride her bike up and down the hills and eat wineberries growing wild in the woods.


Photo Credit: Gloson Teh

3 Responses to “Tarriers”

  1. A. Diaz says:

    I really like this text and I will give it a…10 out of 10.

  2. Carson L Wright says:

    10 out of 10

  3. J. Talbot says:

    Such a gorgeous portrait of futility that it rattles the head. Love the title,too (“…and the joy we shared as we tarried there, none other has ever known…”).

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