a comfortable distance {python/rook}
Dec 21, 2017 9:22:18 GMT -5
Post by rook on Dec 21, 2017 9:22:18 GMT -5
☸
Alcove.
Siren.
Crayfish.
Net.
Distorted through the harsh cries of gulls and the heavy chimes of mooring vessels, I can hear a faint laughter. Somewhere in this fallen paradise, joy still exists, but not nearby, and maybe not for long. I cling to it, letting it give me brief hope, and for a moment I can imagine that I am coping well.
I move through the twelve ton carcass of a scrapped trawler that lies crippled and torn out the front of the South Barrows shipyard. My fingers trace over the sun-bleached paintwork; once white, now a milky yellow, and bleeding with rust. The low sunlight weaves between the steel ribs of this dead craft, casting dark lines across its hull. I step across, my ankles submerged in the shallows. Through the murk I can see the keel, and I follow it to the end of the brow.
Many men must have lived months at a time on this ship, a brotherhood of fishermen and tradespeople, all working together to try and bring home a haul large enough to feed the thousands. On homecoming days the people look out to sea for the first signs of their return, hoping desperately that they would bring with them a bountiful catch.
But times are hard, and each year the fishermen have to go father and farther out to sea, and each time they come back, the catch is just that bit smaller.
Dion has told me that a man's crew-mates are like his family; You would die for them. It's a life and death trade. I wonder how many died whilst working on this ship? Do their spirits still linger here, drifting restlessly in their decaying chambers, or have they too abandoned their dying craft? I don't believe in ghosts, but I believe in fate.
I move through the anchorage and into the quiet cobblestone streets that stretch along the beaten promenade. The salty air hangs in my lungs, stinging my senses and relaxing my muscles. I love living here. I couldn't imagine not having the wonderful ocean - my only constant.
Waves seem to cascade inland from the horizon, their tremendous power greeting the rocky coastline with a towering force. The buildings here are never dry. Their wooden frames are sodden with rot, wherein green mossy algae thrives and grows. The salt has malted the tile rooves, and faded their delicate paintwork. This street is a dour, dripping mess. An ode to a town that was once a jewel, now a relic.
My only friend is out at sea, and he will be gone for many weeks, maybe months. He has hungry little mouths to feed, and a wife that longs for him. She gazes out onto the horizon every evening, as her child cries out, missing his father. Dionysus has asked me to watch over them, and he trusts me to make sure they have enough food and water.
These are lonely months for me. The abrasive cold turns the nights sour and harsh. My father makes me train for longer, and in my isolation I grow stronger. Not for him, but for me, and for those I hold close. Dark days are coming, I can feel the unrest distilling in markets and taverns.
I need to float. There is too much on my mind. But my only friend is out at sea, and no one else in this town will indulge me. So I do what I need to do, because consequence is a bridge I cross when I approach it.
I glance over my shoulder as I approach a battery of moored bass boats. They all seem unmanned, yet not inactive. There is a tavern across the street. Ideal. I watch the weathered hulls of these worn trawlers bob with the tide, and when I am certain that I am not being watched, I climb down onto the deck of the nearest ship to me.
I have stowed away before, always on small vessels such at this, designed for short journeys around the coastline. Nothing that will take me too far from land for too long.
I wrap myself in a damp green tarp, and head below deck to find a place to become inconspicuous.
That's all I want; to not exist for a few days.
Siren.
Crayfish.
Net.
Distorted through the harsh cries of gulls and the heavy chimes of mooring vessels, I can hear a faint laughter. Somewhere in this fallen paradise, joy still exists, but not nearby, and maybe not for long. I cling to it, letting it give me brief hope, and for a moment I can imagine that I am coping well.
I move through the twelve ton carcass of a scrapped trawler that lies crippled and torn out the front of the South Barrows shipyard. My fingers trace over the sun-bleached paintwork; once white, now a milky yellow, and bleeding with rust. The low sunlight weaves between the steel ribs of this dead craft, casting dark lines across its hull. I step across, my ankles submerged in the shallows. Through the murk I can see the keel, and I follow it to the end of the brow.
Many men must have lived months at a time on this ship, a brotherhood of fishermen and tradespeople, all working together to try and bring home a haul large enough to feed the thousands. On homecoming days the people look out to sea for the first signs of their return, hoping desperately that they would bring with them a bountiful catch.
But times are hard, and each year the fishermen have to go father and farther out to sea, and each time they come back, the catch is just that bit smaller.
Dion has told me that a man's crew-mates are like his family; You would die for them. It's a life and death trade. I wonder how many died whilst working on this ship? Do their spirits still linger here, drifting restlessly in their decaying chambers, or have they too abandoned their dying craft? I don't believe in ghosts, but I believe in fate.
I move through the anchorage and into the quiet cobblestone streets that stretch along the beaten promenade. The salty air hangs in my lungs, stinging my senses and relaxing my muscles. I love living here. I couldn't imagine not having the wonderful ocean - my only constant.
Waves seem to cascade inland from the horizon, their tremendous power greeting the rocky coastline with a towering force. The buildings here are never dry. Their wooden frames are sodden with rot, wherein green mossy algae thrives and grows. The salt has malted the tile rooves, and faded their delicate paintwork. This street is a dour, dripping mess. An ode to a town that was once a jewel, now a relic.
My only friend is out at sea, and he will be gone for many weeks, maybe months. He has hungry little mouths to feed, and a wife that longs for him. She gazes out onto the horizon every evening, as her child cries out, missing his father. Dionysus has asked me to watch over them, and he trusts me to make sure they have enough food and water.
These are lonely months for me. The abrasive cold turns the nights sour and harsh. My father makes me train for longer, and in my isolation I grow stronger. Not for him, but for me, and for those I hold close. Dark days are coming, I can feel the unrest distilling in markets and taverns.
I need to float. There is too much on my mind. But my only friend is out at sea, and no one else in this town will indulge me. So I do what I need to do, because consequence is a bridge I cross when I approach it.
I glance over my shoulder as I approach a battery of moored bass boats. They all seem unmanned, yet not inactive. There is a tavern across the street. Ideal. I watch the weathered hulls of these worn trawlers bob with the tide, and when I am certain that I am not being watched, I climb down onto the deck of the nearest ship to me.
I have stowed away before, always on small vessels such at this, designed for short journeys around the coastline. Nothing that will take me too far from land for too long.
I wrap myself in a damp green tarp, and head below deck to find a place to become inconspicuous.
That's all I want; to not exist for a few days.
