A Fishing Village With No Name

A fishing village with no name on an island just along the mainland with a sturdy bridge to connect them. But it did have a name, yet he would never speak of it, and truthfully, it has been so long that it has long been forgotten.

Thiry-three people in it to be exact. There were villages far larger and greater than this, so who would stay. But no one else could trap a tuna better than the folk here. And there was always a large feast among friends and family.

And a beautiful mare named Zia, owned by an even more beautiful woman named Letta. Zia was one of the residents that helped take the people to and from much larger lands. He gave her extra care for her coat and hooves, just to hear compliments ring from Letta's voice.

When he was nine, his sister left home with a dreadful man up north. At eleven, he began as an apprentice for the stablemaster. While fourteen, he swore the horses who traveled far and wide would tell him that his sister still loved him no matter how far. Three months before seventeen, he would visit Letta while her father went on extravagant business trips to the city. Letta looked so beautiful when they wed at nineteen. They could never grasp a child even when they were twenty-one. Oh, twenty-three is much too sad to think upon. But he was still living at twenty-five, his body was trampled by blisters and left to lay above the stable. At twenty-six, flames would burn down and he'd run as far as he could on an aging Zia until her legs would give in.

A fishing village with no name, and no one left to care about what it once was.