The 32-foot Catalina bobs atop the water like a red and white fishing lure. Distance increases scope while reducing size.
I imagine the boat as the upper portion of an illustrated graphic intended to help children visualize the relative size of an iceberg. To reveal how massive the iceberg when you peek beneath the surface. How huge the part you can’t see.
Low hums, atonal underwater sounds. And that boat linked to an invisible object below. As if by a thread.
The jetty rocks heat up but I can’t abandon the boat, the family in its berth, the mother cooking hot dogs on the swaying gas stove, the kids in their orange life jackets tossing bread into the waves, watching things sink. There is a plop made upon contact—a splash when pebble hits the water’s surface—but no sound which conveys an object sinking. No sound comes to mind.
The man at the helm cranes his neck to see around the mast. An ill-tempered jib flaps back and forth furiously, the mainsail helter-skelter, indecisive, he tries to manage the tack alone. And there is an instant when little heads swivel to follow the porpoise, pre-storm waves batting the boat left and right, as the captain loses his balance. As the daddy’s feet lift from lost bearing. As the father launches from the white platform like an acrobat. As the shock and surprise of curves and elbow angles glittering upwards, the waves and the waves and the waves churning soundless rumble.
I know where he is. The knowing pummels me. The life-vested children screaming his name into the wind; the mother’s bandana a buoyant red blare, a horn begging for a response from somewhere. Screams never see what happened.
I know where he is. The waves licking my toes, bitty kitten tongues. And what I can see from here, from this shore is the line which links our Captain to what is left. A merciless graphic.
[Tweet “Screams never see what happened.”]
Difficult to follow. and no real surprise in the story. my response is meeeeh.
Wow!! Such density and texture. Congrats!
Thank you so much for your kind comments.
Why, in this medium of few words, do writers rattle on and on trying to outdo even themselves with poetic prose. They create images which are way too thought out, too pasted onto the page thereby rendering the story …… Stiff.
Thanks Wolfe. I love rattles. And rattling sounds. And writers who rattle. And rattlesnakes. And the terrifying ambiguity of a death rattle winding its way through the body. Or your sentence.
I don’t agree with most comments above. This story is not pulp fiction. It’s not stilted; it’s wonderful and thought provoking. This is creative writing at its best.
Whether you agree or not, James, we are all entitled to our opinion……
You’re right, Wolfe. We all see art in a different way. It’s like food…we all have our preferences.
Thanks James. It’s dense, I know. (I struggle with my propensity for very dense bricks:)
Alina, I love dense, rich fabrics, not thin, worn out ones. I love hot, spicy foods, not bland pablum. A story is not necessarily like a joke, with a punchline. It’s good if it’s well written. A creative writing teacher once told me, “You can’t teach this.” That’s ironic, isn’t it? A professor teaching something that can’t be taught.
Does the pot ask the potter, “Why hast thou made me like this?” ?
Well . . . he should!
Serious. Somber. Searching. Have you ever considered writing slapstick? I think you’d be great at it.
That was a challenge.
I’m not sure what you mean here.
So long as the comments are “kind or constructive.”
Was going to say the same! I liked this story. I was pulled along by the narrative and enjoyed the imagery and word play. Not all stories are cut from the same cloth, and they don’t all have to get sewn into the same shaped sail.
Thought provoking vignette. This is a very difficult form to write in, and getting the balance between description and moving the story along is a real challenge. I liked the imagery in this story: very striking!
Thank you so much David.