A harsh crack of wood Slimy, suctioning squelches Screams from the sailors
Aye, all hands on deck Ropes burning through deathly grips Canons fired with haste
The briny water Choking vulnerable throats Swallowing shed blood
Gargantuan head Tentacles of grotesque length Eyes of the devil
Adrenaline sweat Brackish waters merge with bile Death reeks in its wake
Gazing from the window, looking down on all who pass ‘Pathetic’ ‘Putrid’ ‘Unworthy’ The good of the many does not exist
Life is too precious, they’re wasting it away ‘Withering’ ‘Sprawling’ ‘Decaying’ Every last one of them, worse off than the rest
They stand, gathered round their stalls ‘Cackling’ ‘Mocking’ ‘Sneering’ Their talk is marked with vicious bite
Their smiles consume their faces ‘Deceitful’ ‘Treacherous’ ‘Hollow’ Loss of faith; no ounce of respect
The Devil bows her head to me ‘Succumb’ ‘Surrender’ ‘Indulge’ The words grasp tighter still
No one will ever be good enough ‘Feeble’ ‘Desolate’ ‘Cancerous’ Shed from this life without a trace
To rise above my ailment and find ‘Hope’ ‘Virtue’ ‘Benevolence’ Its reach falls miles away. The light subsides
And there go the sheep ‘Marching’ ‘Faltering’ ‘Existing’ But always staying in line
“I’ve never been any good at cooking,” Vanessa mentioned sheepishly as we sat down at the dinner table.
“It’s really about the passion behind the food you choose to prepare. It’s okay for it not to be visually appealing as an end result. What you want are the flavors, that’s going to be your winner,” I told my cousin, grabbing a roll from the basket on the table.
“You’re so good at it. Do you have a favorite meal that you like to make? Or eat, for that matter?”
I poked my fork around my plate, spearing a cubed squash as I pondered her question. There were so many foods that I loved to eat. I always viewed food as a wonderful means of getting to know someone. Different cultures used different spices and herbs, different cooking methods, different ingredients. Family always played a big part as those recipes had been passed down through generations; learned techniques that created magic on a plate. A well crafted dish could transport you through time and space and create lasting memories.
“Well,” I started a little bashfully, “I’ve actually always been a sucker for breakfast. The best way to start the day is by setting your brain to work right away. You’re not only making food to create energy for yourself, but by carefully selecting all of your ingredients and deciding how to bring them together, it works your thinking side as well.”
“I never thought of it that way, but like I said, I’m not much of a cook. I usually just grab a quick poptart or some fruit before heading out the door,” Vanessa said as she bit into her asparagus.
My heart and stomach simultaneously lurched as she said ‘poptart’. “Oh Ness, no. A poptart? You are doing such a disservice to your body! With all of the amazing options you could have in place of that fake pastry! I mean, I understand if you're short on time but please, you have to avoid that not-even-good-enough-to-be-a-last-resort food!”
I put my fork down and briefly removed my glasses to rub at the bridge of my nose. “Let me paint a picture for you of my absolute favorite dish; a Lox Benedict.
“Nothing has captured breakfast perfection quite like this delicate, yet filling, masterpiece. It starts with one of the most versatile ingredients, the humble egg. But you have to treat it with respect, it doesn’t get tossed in a pan and fried or smashed up into a scramble; you have to remove the egg from its shell and place it gently into a lightly boiling pot of water. This cooks the egg at a slower pace to give it that soft, plump texture. A beautiful, white cloud with a golden nugget inside is what will come out of that water.”
“I do enjoy eggs,” Vanessa mused and leaned in intently as she grabbed a roll and nibbled on it idly.
“The benedict’s base, its entire structure, is the warm, soft, slightly toasted English muffin. Nothing is better at soaking up egg yolk than that porous, round piece of heavenly bread. But it can’t do all of the work on its own. I like to layer some unsalted butter on top that will melt and absorb just so. Unsalted is key because the dish will already have salt.”
“What about using a bagel?” my cousin inquired, taking a nonchalant sip of her wine as she said this.
“Bagel? No, Ness, please, hear me out on the whole thing before you go looking for substitutes.”
“Sorry, continue,” she chuckled as she set down the glass and picked her fork back up.
“Now, a classic benedict would generally have Canadian bacon, but this benedict is different in the best ways. I use lox.” Taking a moment to let my mouth water and mind picture its flakes and decadent texture, I continued, “Lox is the most scrumptious preparation of salmon I could ask for. This is where that salt component comes in that I was talking about. It’s a fileted piece of salmon that has been brined. So naturally, it’s flaky, it’s soft, it’s buttery, and oh, so smooth!” My voice hiked up in excitement. Vanessa laughed at my enthusiasm as she offhandedly rolled her eyes.
“So, you’ve now got a warm buttered English muffin topped with the most amazing salmon, with eggs that are like little fluffy pillows placed gingerly on top, so as not to break them. You might be asking yourself, what’s missing to bring this whole thing together?”
“Yes, I did find that question popping into my head,” Vanessa sarcastically replied, though her fascination with the dish was evident as she had ceased eating the food in front of her.
“The pièce de résistance, as it were, is the almighty hollandaise sauce!”
“What is that, Dutch?”
“French, actually. It’s made from egg yolks, butter; yes more butter, lemon juice, and a dash of cayenne pepper if you like a little kick. These simple ingredients combined make for the warmest, creamiest, most mouth-watering sauce poured all over the dish. It pulls the whole piece together because it encases every component. The entire meal is the best combination of flavors, textures, and scents, creating complete satisfaction.”
“Well damn, why didn’t we have that for dinner then?” Ness exclaimed, plopping her hands down on the table.
As I speared another piece of squash from my plate, I couldn’t help but look at it disappointedly. Shaking my head in resignation at the dinner before me I added, “Tomorrow morning, we shall feast.”
“Hurry up! Grab your suitcase! Don’t forget the one by the bed!” Anne shouted to her son Martin.
“I can’t find my charger,” Martin whined.
“Chargers are cheap, don’t worry. We’re going to miss our flight!” Anne grabbed her rolling bag and ushered Martin out of the hotel room.
“I’m hungry, are we going to be able to eat on the plane again like last time? I want one of their turkey sandwiches. With a pickle! Can I get a soda?”
“Of course, hun. But only one. I don’t want you to have to get up all throughout the flight having to use the restroom. It’s an 8 hour trip. We’re going to want to get comfortable.”
Anne and Martin rushed to the front counter where a plump little lady stood. Round glasses that were too big for her face rested on her nose. She was buried in the computer in front of her, diligently typing away.
“Hello, we’re checking out. Parsons, room 420.” Anne said, pulling her wallet out of her purse. She put it down on the counter.
The woman raised her eyebrows but didn’t look up from the computer. Supposing this was a sign of acknowledgement, Anne waited a couple of seconds.
“I’d just like to return our keys, if that’s alright.”
The woman pressed a few buttons with the mouse, then looked up from her glasses, without moving her head.
“How many keys?” she uttered curtly.
“Two.” Anne placed the key cards down in front of the woman.
“One moment.” She looked back to the screen. Anne looked at her watch. They still had to hail a cab, get to the airport, check their bags, go through security, and find their terminal. All in the span of less than two hours. The airport alone was 45 minutes away, at least that’s what Anne’s phone had told her when she checked last night before forgetting to set her alarm and waking up late in utter panic.
Anne knew it was her fault for them being behind, but she couldn’t help becoming irritated at how long the stout woman was taking, and how little she cared about them or whether they might be in a rush or not.
“And that’ll all get charged to the card I put down at check in correct?” Anne urged, hoping this would speed up the process so that she could just head out now.
“One moment,” the woman repeated.
Anne couldn’t help herself, “I’m sorry ma’am. We’re in a little bit of a rush, what else do you need from me?”
The woman huffed muttering something about Americans under her breath. That was uncalled for, thought Anne, but didn’t say anything.
“Your keys have been received. Our machine is printing your receipt now. Again, one moment and you’ll be on your way.” She glanced at their bags. “I don’t suppose you’ll need a trolly for your bags.”
“No, thank you, we’re alright.” Anne glanced at her watch again then down at Martin. He was sitting on his rolling bag playing with an action figure he had grabbed from his backpack.
“There you are. Thank you for staying with us.”
Before Anne could respond, the woman instantly turned around and walked to the back room. Anne let the rudeness pass and quickly grabbed her rolling suitcase and Martin’s free hand and pulled him along to the large rustic door of the hotel. It felt heavy pushing it, but it could have been from the wind, which she was greeted by with a swift gust. She grabbed at her coat which swayed in the wind and saw Martin sidestep to stop himself from falling over.
She hailed a cab and they rushed to put their belongings in the trunk before hopping in together and cuddling up for warmth. Anne hadn’t realized how cold it would be outside. This was Europe in the winter after all. Her and Martin were used to the sunny days of Florida and the humidity that hung in the air with an awful pungency reserved for the summers. She didn’t miss it there. Now that the divorce with her husband was finalized and they didn’t have to stay in Florida for his job anymore, she was prepared to move up the coast to somewhere in the New England area. She had always loved visiting there as a child. The history, the sights, the weather. It was really why she liked Europe so much as well. She was thrilled to have given Martin the chance to come out here and see it for himself.
She glanced down at him, watching him silently as he stared out the cab window, looking at the sites one final time. At the people walking their dogs, laughing amongst friends, rushing to work, shopping. She knew he needed this break from reality as much as she did. She squeezed him gently against her.
“Mom, why don’t we live here?” Martin asked, not looking away from the road.
“We’ll live somewhere similar soon. Then we can come here and visit as often as we can.”
“Promise?” He turned to look at her with his big brown eyes.
“Promise.” She kissed his forehead. He smiled and turned away again, new excitement written across his face.
The cab pulled up to the airport and Anne checked her watch. They had about 45 minutes and still had to go through all the checks. She grabbed the last of her cash from her pocket and handed it to the driver. They gathered their bags and hand in hand raced inside.
After checking their bags at the self check and printing their tickets they wasted no time in rushing to find their gate.
They had to pass through customs first, but that wouldn’t take long. They hadn’t bought any souvenirs, just taken photos, and their bags were already checked.
As they wove through the line, time ticking away, they approached the agent who asked them for their tickets and passports.
“Absolutely, one second,” Anne reached into her purse. Her heart dropped. She didn’t keep much in her purse, some gum, tissues, pens, a notepad, and….her wallet. It was obviously absent. She thought quickly, if she left it in her suitcase, or if she took it out in the cab.
“Ma’am I need your passport,” the gentlemen said, rather sternly.
“Yes, of course, I just seem to have misplaced it,” she almost whispered.
“Please step aside while you search,” he said and ushered her to his side.
Other passengers started to walk up to him and hand their identification over as well as their tickets. They walked right through towards their flights, that would surely not take off without them.
‘Oh god, why? This is awful!’ Anne thought, fruitlessly searching her purse. She could feel the sweat forming on her body. She looked at her watch again 10 minutes. She thought and thought again. What could she do? They wouldn’t be able to leave the country. They were going to miss their flight. They wouldn’t be able to buy another ticket, they wouldn’t be able to get a hotel.
“Well honey, maybe we will be living here after all,” Anne joked.
“What do you mean?” Martin asked confused, not understanding. “What about all of our stuff at home?”
“It was a joke sweetie. I just can’t find our passports.” Anne looked defeated, the agent glanced over at her.
“Ma’am, if you don’t have your passport, I’m going to have to ask you to exit the airport.” Anne looked to her purse, looked to Martin, then back to the agent.
“Alright, well thank you,” she sighed and grabbing Martin’s hand again, turned him around and headed back the way they came, on the opposite side of the rope. She looked out the window and saw a plane taking off. Probably not her plane, she thought, but the symbolism was not lost on her.
“Where are we going? What are we doing?” Martin complained. Anne could tell his hunger was setting in.
She pulled them aside to a bench. ‘Maybe if I hadn’t woken up late I would have had my head on straight this morning. Maybe if we’d had a proper breakfast. The hotel boasted about their amazing breakfast,’ she thought and pictured the creamy eggs, fluffy French toast, and coffee. Definitely the coffee. ‘That desk attendant could have used some coffee…That desk attendant! How could I be so stupid! I left my wallet at the counter!’ She jumped up from the bench, startling Martin.
“Honey, we're going back to the hotel!”
“What about our bags?” Martin asked.
‘Shit,’ Anne thought. This was going to involve more steps then she anticipated. But now she had her head on straight. She was super-mom to the rescue!
The machines continue to beep; The slow metronome of life. A countdown he’s willing himself to face. Family drifts in and out; ghostlike in themselves, Their expressions morbid; hope fleeting But he watches nonetheless.
He thinks back on his time with them The memories seem complete, Guidance, wisdom, and sanctuary He gave himself to them. He hopes they’ll take those lessons learned And pass them down to kin Solidifying his presence forevermore And a new life will begin.
So while he lies in a suspended state Neither amongst the living nor the dead, He’ll reminiscence about the time he had And make things right with God.
As numbers on the clock rush by mocking his decline, His heart struggles to keep pace, always losing time. The world is closing in on him and darkness reaches out; He makes not a single plea, but offers himself up.
He is out of order now, Never to be fixed. But his life is one of many And will be cherished nevertheless.
Sometimes when we hear glass shatter it’s followed by cheers of Mazel Tov! Or laughter as everyone in a restaurant enjoys the spectacle of a destroyed glass or plate. When it happens at home, people are concerned, immediately sweeping it off the floor for everyone’s safety. But there are some situations where glass breaking is a bad thing, a very bad thing.
I arrived at the lab late that morning. Groggy, irritated, and a little hungover I opened the door to the building where overly chipper colleagues of mine were discussing the progress of our latest scientific breakthrough. We were making strides in the medical world, albeit controversial ones, and creating a disease that could kill off any other disease in the human body without harming the host. However, it was imperative that it did not come in contact with the host until after a sample of the hosts’ original pathogen had been extracted first and introduced to the Batman Pathogen, that’s what we were calling it around the lab, in a petri dish. This would allow it to learn the other’s patterns and kill it on the spot while mutating itself to become less harmful. Once that was complete we could then introduce a healthy sample from the host and ol’ Batman would mutate again to meld safely with it. Then, and only then, we could introduce it into the host’s body where it would become one with the patient and multiply, taking over their older antibodies and creating stronger, defensible ones. It would be able to kill off any foreign bodies that tried to plague the person. It was fighting fire with fire and allowing for new growth to flourish.
We found out through our rodent experiments that if you first introduced the disease without the separation state that it would quickly destroy the rodent from the inside. Not in a shutting down internal organs kind of way, but in a visually horrific, rapid body decomposition kind of way. The rodent’s body had started to break down like a decrepit marionette, bones dislocating from their joints and popping from their sockets. Then their every orifice started to ooze blood like their body was being pressed out with a rolling pin. Eyes popped, chests exploded. It was truly monstrous.
When we discovered how life changing it was when it was done through the petri-dish first, the rodent absolutely thrived! It grew stronger in every regard. And for that reason, our research had to continue. We had to introduce this to the world, it was going to make sickness obsolete and humans nearly indestructible.
So that morning, groggy as I was, I put on my hazmat suit and proceeded down the hall to my station. Not but 10 feet from the door I saw Luke, my closest partner, carrying a tray of multiple test tubes of Batman. As he looked up and saw me he smiled and gave a head nod, but he did not notice the edge of the table as he smacked into it with just enough force. When they say tragic moments happen in slow motion, it couldn’t be further from the truth. It all happened in the blink of an eye to the point where I wasn’t even sure it had happened as I saw it. When he hit the table the test tubes were violently ejected from his hands and flown across the room. Each one shattered with such an audible, high pitched, shriek I couldn’t help but cringe from the resonating sound in my ear. One of the pieces hit the ground and richotted back to Luke, cutting a hole in his suit.
The glass shards rested on the ground and sparkled in the fluorescent lights, almost otherworldly in their appearance, having but the briefest moment to give off this incredible sense of beauty. I suppose that is one of life’s greatest ironies that something so incredibly dangerous could look ethereal.
Regaining my thoughts, I yanked open the lab door to try to wrench Luke from the room but another scientist grabbed me from behind and pulled me from the room. They hit the panic button in the hall and slammed the door to the room shut leaving Luke inside.
With the panic button now sounding throughout the whole building, it was going to go on lockdown within a matter of seconds. No one would be allowed to leave and the CDC would be sent out with haste to resolve the issue. The panic button was not meant to be used lightly, especially with our project, so everyone in the building knew, if it was going off, shit was about to hit the fan.
I ran to the door of the lab, which was now bolted shut and looked through the glass. Luke was now trapped inside eyes wide with sheer panic and desperation. He ran up to the window and began pounding on the glass. He was locked in his own coffin, and we both knew it.
I stared in disbelief and terror as his panic turned to pain. An unknowable, clearly unexplainable, amount of pain. I immediately took back the thought that tragic moments happened quickly because the glass may have shattered instantly, but his death occurred at the slowest, most cruel pace in my mind. Just like the rodents, his eyes burst right out of his head. They hit the window with a gruesome splat. His face drooped like a stroke victim’s until the skin itself began to slough off. His body was limp but didn't collapse under his weight yet. I could see his muscles convulsing and moving like waves in the ocean. Red saturated his lab coat from the inside out and finally, horribly, he crumpled to the floor like a disheveled coat.
Rhonda, who had pulled me back from the room before hitting the button, was throwing up next to me. I couldn’t even register her reaction until I felt liquid begin to pool by my feet. Snapped back into reality, I looked down and noticed it wasn’t just bile spilling across the floor, there was blood mixed in. My eyes shot up to her face and saw her head was dipped harshly to the side, clearly broken from the neck. She had been infected and she was going down, just as hellishly.
The disease was now airborne and it was traveling through the building. Through the vents and down the halls. There had been others walking past our sector and, succumbing to human curiosity, had gotten too close. Their demise was imminent and their shed blood continued the spread.
Bodies were dropping all around me, but I couldn’t escape. All of the doors out of the building were mechanically secured for the betterment of the world. The rodents dying had been one thing in my mind but seeing the catastrophic effects on humans was another thing entirely. All I could do now was pray. Pray that the CDC would arrive soon and burn this building to the ground. Pray that Batman would never make it out into the rest of society. I didn’t think I had much of a chance of survival myself, the suit saved me from initial impact, but I had a sense it was only a matter of time. I helped to create this monster, I shouldn’t be alive anyways. We all deserved to go down with the ship. You can’t play God and this was our punishment.
“Please, dear God, burn this place to the depths of hell where it belongs and wipe clear this abomination we have created.” I whispered to myself.
I could see the vans coming towards the building.
“Contain this plague and let it not see the light of day,” I continued.
The men came out in droves in hazmat suits, running towards the building.
“With your Will, let it be done. Please God, let it be done. Amen.”
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. But I’ve been doing that every morning since you passed. The bed is too big now and I feel swallowed by it every night. Pulled into the depths of the sheets and comforter melting into darkness.
I make the bed just the way you liked it, with all 7 pillows placed precisely at the head of the bed. At the opposite end I fold the extra blanket long ways and lay it gently in place. I keep them all there when I go to sleep but each morning those pillows and blanket are strewn across the floor; pushed aside, forgotten, and disheveled. And I, I am on your side of the bed. The wrong side. Wrong because I shouldn’t be the one lying there. You should. Wrong because we were supposed to have more time. We bought this bed together, we shopped, meticulously mind you, for the exact right one. One that you so cutely quoted “provided the support for our marriage”. One that had a 20-year guarantee. But you didn’t make it 20 years.
So I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and I put those pillows and blanket back where they belonged and I had to continue with my day. Continue with every day. And come back every night to that same reminder.
I’ve kept your side of the room the same as well. Your half finished book still rests on the bedside table with your bookmark placed inside. Your hair tie and favorite bracelet remain next to a framed picture of us from a day out at the park. One of our best days. I can still hear your laughter in the photograph from me tackling you playfully to the ground. And there’s a note on the table as well from me, reminding you that I was going to be late coming home that day but to text me with what you’d like me to bring home for dinner. You had kissed that note leaving a perfect imprint of your lips. I thought it was funny at the time that you felt compelled to kiss it but what I hadn’t understood was how much you appreciated the things I did for you. And now I have that daily reminder when I see your lips on the paper. When I see you on the paper.
So I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and you were still gone and life kept moving on. But I’ll keep making that bed for you.
Swallow. Hidden. Guilt. Swallow: That is the best thing I have ever eaten! It’s juicy, it’s meaty, it’s oozing with flavor! Another bite wouldn’t hurt. Just as good as the first! I could eat this entire meal! In fact, I will. I mean, it was left out here on the table, so clearly it must be for me. Why else would it be within such easy reach? I could eat this every day for the rest of my life. Now, if I could only communicate that. Maybe by finishing this meal they’ll know how much I enjoyed it and will have to keep giving me more! Better not leave even a scrap!
Swallow. Hidden. Guilt. Hidden: I just heard the door to the bathroom. They’re on their way back. Oh no, what if, just what if I wasn’t supposed to eat that meal? If that is the case I can’t be caught standing next to the empty wrapper. I’ll get in trouble! Then I’ll definitely never get to eat that tasty food again! I better go to my favorite hiding spot under the stairs, they’ll never find me there! It’s sometimes dark and a little scary, but that’s why it’s the perfect spot to hide! I better bring Mr. Teddy with me just in case. He’ll keep me safe!
Swallow. Hidden. Guilt. Guilt: Oh man, they found me, and boy did I do it this time. They keep yelling at me, but I deserve every second of this. They didn’t tell me that I could eat the food. I thought I was being a good boy, appreciating the food I was given, but it wasn’t given to me, I took it. I’m a bad boy, a very bad boy. They should punish me forever, that’s what their loud voice seems to express. This is it for me! It’s to the crate for the night. Might as well make it for the week! I’m a troublemaker, a problem, just no good. What’s this? I don’t understand, they’re lightening their tone. They’re petting me on the head now? They can’t stay mad at me? But I don’t deserve this! I’ll never understand my human.
Out on the seas there are many superstitions. Not all of them are sensible and certainly some border on ludicrousness, but if you want to return home in one piece then you’d be best to heed them.
The siren’s call is a tale told by all sailors, but few have heard her songs. Few have heard the sweet tonations of what her voice is capable of. The vibrations of her vocals that resonate deep in your soul. Those uninitiated are not aware that the instant her voice penetrates your ears, it’s like a viscous chorus that you can’t get out of your head.
I fell prey to her when I set sail on my weathered rowboat. Taken to the water since I was a child, I found the most solace on the rocking of the waves. The obstacles of life could not suffocate my existence when the ocean was my haven. My impenetrable barrier.
I set upon those waters that morning knowing that as long as I was out there, where time had the ability to stand still, I would not have to come to terms with my brother’s death. I rowed out miles from the shore until I could feel the muscles threatening to burst in my arms. I set the oars down and looked to the horizon. The troubles of the world were not present on this still morning.
The boat swayed gently, lulling me into a hypnotic state. Back and forth, I layed down and looked towards the sky. The sun had not yet risen and the clouds were still heavy with the previous night’s rain. They moved slowly at first, small gaps forming between them. A lingering star appearing in the distance not yet extinguished by the sun’s light. The boat continued to rock, the occasional large wave lifted the vessel higher.
I closed my eyes and there she was. It was a quiet sound at first, so much so I thought it might have been a bird in the distance readying to dive for its breakfast. But the sound wasn’t curt like the bird’s caw. It was melodic in nature and now its volume grew steadily. My eyes stayed closed as it halted my body. My breath seemed too loud, so I held it for a moment. There it was again, sweetly melding with the air. It played in my ears but I could also feel it. I could feel it on my skin, down through my bones, on the inside of my eyelids. It was like an angel’s laugh, or a harp’s most elegant chord. I let my breath out slowly as I opened my eyes. The clouds were darker now; thick and swirling. The air grew heavy with moisture and static of an oncoming storm. But I did not fret about my return because that heavenly sound deafened the world around me. I could hear a distinct voice now, bending through the increased winds, swirling around my boat like a cocoon. As it wrapped its silken strings tighter, the song seeped through my ears into my mind and struck my soul.
My breath escaped me quickly and I found myself gasping for air, not to remedy my lungs, but to try to absorb the scent of the voice, the essence of its being. My head grew light, but the infatuation quelled my every nerve. I took a moment to look around, desperate to find the source. The seas whipped angrily around me and lightning cracked on the not so distant land. The cliff’s edge had come closer now, but I had not noticed my pull towards it. The crag was harsh and had capsized boats twice the size of the one I was in. However, something about its rock face gave life to that voice. I squinted harder, the air from my lungs now exhaling in raucous breaths. If I could just become one with those celestial chords; life would hold no meaning if I could not just reach out and touch that one perfect note.
I cannot recall the impact my boat made, or the crack of my skull against the jutting rocks. Light flickered across my vision in striking succession, reminiscent of the lightning continuing to plague the lands. There was but a solitary moment where I could hear a cherubic laugh deep inside of myself. This woke me from my spell and my hand instinctively grasped the cliff side with the strength of a survivor. Head still spinning and the only sounds now penetrating my surroundings were of the harsh sea waters abusing my body and the thunderous claps mocking my peril. I began to climb with desperation. The safety of the top stretched out infinitely before me, but my heart pounded in my ears like a metronome. Each heart beat was another lurch upwards. Then another. And another.
My hands grasped the edge and felt the harsh earth tease the tips of my fingers. I tightened my grip and heaved one final time pulling myself up onto the ground. I chanced a glance over the edge. My rowboat was reduced to nothing but splinters now, having been whipped against the rocks and yanked back out to sea. The horizon showed no sign of a morning as the darkness engulfed every edge. However, the waters had come to settle. The sea wiped clean of its tumultuous weather.
I sat in disbelief, unable to grasp what had just occurred. One thought echoed hollowly in my mind; the siren had let me live, but she would call out to me again.
Many times we will try and just as often we will fail, But let not our courage be regarded as frail. For it takes a great strength to pursue one’s desire And a stark humility that we ought to admire.
From the ashes rise the purest form of growth As we sign our hearts to an eternal oath: We will not retreat, surrender, or refrain The capabilities of a mind not easily slain. Instead set our sights on a horizon forever outreaching And be willing to accept the journey it’s teaching. No path comes without effort, nor stone left unturned, But these battles are rewarded with victory hard earned.
So keep your spirits engaged and alive And know that your dream was built to survive.
