THIS SHIP HAS SUNK

A pale blue house sits on a grassy beach on a shore in Maine. The clouds are gray and the ocean, colorless, gently rises and falls on the sand, slow and heavy like the breathing of an old man. A peeling white fence separates the ocean and the house and a path of withered wooden planks leads to the back porch of the house. A blue and white striped beach towel, faded and dirty, lies on the porch, with a brown Tabby cat sitting on top, outstretched and sleeping. The reed around the house rustles in the wind and the swing on the porch rocks slowly. A seagull dips down into the ocean and continues to the house, landing on the windowsill, awakening the cat who lazily watches him. Inside, the wooden floors creak and the light blue and green walls darken the house. The dusty stairs lead up to a large room and two white bay windows open up to a wooden deck that overlooks the ocean. The house is silent and empty and waiting. Waiting for us.

It was a dreary Sunday night and the heavy clouds blocked out the moonlight. The old man made his way along the dock, sea calm and steady, with the dim lights of the bar in his sight. As normal, he was going there to drink and marvel at his picture that hung on the wall, covered in a dusty frame, that showed him holding a large fish. He held the record for the largest fish caught in the nearby cove. When he arrived, music playing and drunks stumbling around, the alcohol was all there. The picture, however, was not. Angry, he questioned the local fishermen. They told him someone had caught an even bigger fish than him and he was to be replaced. The empty spot on the wall laughed in his face. He paced about the bar, infuriated, and drank until he could not walk. In his drunken slur, he announced he would return to fishing once more and restore his self-proclaimed honor. After his speech, the old man stumbled home in the dark, guided by the little fires that were scattered across the sky. If his vision wasn’t blurred, he would have seen a shooting star cut across the blue velvet. He wouldn’t have cared anyways. He was already drunk; his wish had been made.

The next morning, the old man awoke to the early tide. The moon still hung low, too tired to continue it’s journey across the sky, and the salty air blew through the open window. The old man shrugged off his drowsiness, and his hangover, and prepared for his journey. He made sure to pack a lot of food; he wasn’t coming back until he caught his fish. When he finished, he broke free of his rusted shack and made his way to the grey beach, his true home. When he arrived to wake his old boat from it’s slumber and guide it into the foggy water, he was greeted by many of the other fisherman. Some were staring, some were laughing, most never even noticed him. He slipped away into the white blanket, thinking of himself as a hero.

The old man fished in his boat for several days, eating and sleeping very little, undisturbed by the commotion of land. He preferred the continuous rolling waves, he found comfort in it’s unstableness. He continued fishing, unsuccessful, and a week after his descent from land and living, a small boat came by, disturbing his peaceful aura. The two men on the boat told him that there were rumors of a storm blowing through. The old man was far from land, only the mountains peaked out from the horizon, and the fishermen warned him that he may be caught in the storm if he wasn’t cautious. He grumbled and went off into a story of his younger days when he tamed the sea. The fishermen sped away and as the little wooden boat got smaller and smaller, the old man took out a silver flask and took a drink. The fishermen were too straight, they were too symmetrical and perfect. The old man needed flaws.

At tranquility once more, the old man sat at sea for another week, drifting farther and farther each day. The fish came and went, but they seemed less important now. The dark, menacing clouds that rested on the northern skyline seemed to have no importance to the old man, either. The soothing waves rocked the boat and the old man fished and ate and slept, then continued the cycle once more. This circle of peace and work went uninterrupted for two more days, until another fishing boat, much larger than the last, passed by the old man. The fishermen hollered over the deck, urging the man to return to shore. They said the storm was coming in fast and that it would be the biggest one all year. The old man could not answer, though, for he had forgotten why he was out at sea, but he knew it was for something important. As the large boat sailed away, the man took several large drinks from his silver flask and began to mutter profanities under his breath. He was starting to remember his reason for being so far out at sea. He was starting to remember the burden of the fish he knew he would never catch. The salty ocean breeze brushed past the old man and he started slipping away from the outside world once more. Sitting in solitude, he felt like he was becoming part of his boat. His boat was becoming part of the sea. He was becoming part of the sea.

A few more days passed, days not measured by the old man. He could no longer tell time, he only saw the black sky overhead, painting the ocean a dark, gloomy color, and causing waves to rise higher and higher. Day and night began to melt into one, until all that was left was a single, unending day. The old man ever slept, his eyes were focused on his old fishing pole, connected to the sea, awaiting something he did not know of. A fish would tug at the pole and the old man would rise with power and grace, swiftly end his battle with the fish, examine the specimen, then throw it back to his home. It was not worthy of something, but the old man couldn’t remember why. While sitting on his throne one day, examining the old boat, a giant fishing vessel slowly lugged by. It was bustling with fishermen, all running and jumping and yelling. Seeing this, the old man took out his silver flask. Some of the fishermen began yelling at the old man, telling him it was not safe and that he needed to go back to the shore. They said he would be killed if he did not retreat to the shore. He simply stared at them, amazed at their complex features and dialect. They seemed so unfamiliar and for a few brief moments he could not understand their words. The giant fishing vessel slowly passed the old man, leaving him in their large wake. He slowly raised his silver flask and began drinking. The men running. He took a drink. The men jumping. He took several more. The men yelling. He began to shove down the alcohol. There was a loud sound of thunder and, almost synchronized with the sound, the line of his pole tugged into the ocean. He was part of the sea and the sea told him to reel in the fish. Something told him he would need it.

He slowly fought the fish, it’s strength greater than that of the old man. The waves were rising and rain had started crashing into the sea. The old man could tell the fish was large, larger than anything he had ever caught before. He knew this meant something, but he could not remember what or why it was so meaningful. He simply continued his battle, anchored to the sea by a thin fishing line. The fish had turned the boat around and was traveling with the large waves. They were heading straight toward land and the old man’s vision started to blur. He started to stumble around and slip away from everything, but he was still attached to the sea and continued to fight. The waves got higher and higher, the rain poured down, and the dark clouds showed no mercy. The old man and the fish were traveling fast, and by now, the fish was pulling the boat and the old man had lost all control. The mountains became taller and taller, the rocky bluffs become closer and closer. The old man started to lose his boat. He stated to lose the sea. He started to lose the fish. His boat was being thrashed around, but the old man managed to remain his grip. The old man looked up, looked at the tearful sky, and on the rocky cliffs he saw people. He saw all the fishermen of the cove. They were standing there, watching, pointing, running, yelling. The old man searched for his silver flask but he found the boat empty and full of water. He looked up again and could hear the voices of the fishermen, carried with the wind, piercing his ears. The old man slipped away from the world, he stumbled around and then lost his footing. He was still holding on to the old fishing pole, though, and by now the fish had turned around once more to avoid the jagged rocks. The old man was carried into the sea and dragged underwater, still clutching the old fishing pole, and his old boat crashed into the rocks, sending splinters into the air like little birds learning how to fly. The fishermen watched as the old man slowly faded away into the dark sea.

Back at the bar, the owner put the picture of the old man back up on the wall. He had lost the picture of the new, larger fish and decided to give the old man back his glory. This was the only part of the old man that would ever return to the bar. The only part of the man that would ever return to land.

tears take flight
and fly away

heavy hearts lift
and soar today

there are things
I simply cannot say

but hand in hand
I’m here to stay.

Sitting here in this black and white, half-off suit, I’m staring blankly at an empty computer screen. This is where I am, this is my future. All that hard work, all those late nights spent studying, and now look where I am. The gray floor and the dim fluorescents lights are my home. Some people are in the back room with a birthday cake, celebrating the birth of another idiot. Like they even care. I shouldn’t be here. The smell of freshly-printed paper should be replaced with an aroma of coffee, the bright screens with an old book. I look outside and see the tall office buildings, row after row of desks and chairs and squeaky shoes and fake smiles. I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it all. I don’t want to be here. I can’t be here. I should be looking out at the ocean. I should be smelling the salty air, feeling the cool breeze. I want to take walks on the pier and sit in parks beside the water, the sound of seagulls dancing in the sky and the sand between my bare feet. Days spent in cafes and nights spent in a crappy two-room house with live bands and the smell of cigarettes and beer. I look away from the window and see my boss staring at me staring at nothing. It’s now or never. I mouth the words “fuck you” and flip him off. I leave the office, leave him staring in awe. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m leaving everything for nothing. Or maybe I’m leaving nothing for everything. Either way, it feels so damn great.

The old bookstore is a small, two-room shop that rests snugly between a family-run diner and a three story inn called the Cendre de Rose. It isn’t in the greatest part of town, but all the artists and musicians and writers live there and they’re nice people. Dysfunctional, but nice. Today is Tuesday and the sky is gray with a slight breeze. Even this deep in the city you can taste the salt of the ocean that rises and falls just beyond the jungle of silver and blue skyscrapers. The wooden beams and old green paint of the bookstore seem even more faded, and the two large windows on either side of the one red door are a little dirty. Nicolai, the owner, is putting away a few books on one of the wooden shelves in the back. The covers are hard and worn and smell of old paper. He loves that smell. That’s why he quit his job and spent his life savings on the thrift bookstore. As he sets down an old red copy of Catcher in the Rye, the little bell at the front door rings. He stands up and goes to the front of the store, slowly and with a gentle ease, to see who has entered. It’s a girl, with brown hair and very light blue eyes. She has on a lilac-print dress, a blue pea coat, and brown moccasins.
“Where’s the owner?” she asks suddenly and a little awkwardly.
“I’m the owner,” Nicolai replies.
“Oh,” she says, and begins looking at a row of books that rest on a shelf beside her. She grabs an olive colored book, Tarzan of the Apes, and starts to finger through a few pages. “Do you have any Hemmingway?” she asks, just as Nicolai is turning to leave.
“Actually, someone brought in a-” He is cut off by the girl’s soft voice.
“You’re my father,” she says, not taking her eyes off the page she is on.
Nicolai is puzzled for a few seconds, but says “ Well, that can’t be. You seem to be in your early twenties and I’m only thirty-two.”
“Hmmm.” She stands there, still looking through the book for a few seconds. “Sorry, then. Wrong bookstore,” she says and sets the book down and walks out the door.
“That’s odd,” Nicolai says to himself, “this is the only thrift bookstore in the whole city.”

I just realized I never posted this. I was asked to write a story based around this old photo. It’s a bit confusing if you’re not paying attention, but it gets the job done.

It was six p.m. and the East Bay Terminal flooded with people. Dark, sickly people whose horrid lives seeped out of their pores and filled the air, mixing with the steel and grime of the surrounding landscape. Their gaudy clothes and social titles were forever imprinted on their faces, showing the world they were the giants of society. A large wave of people broke, crashing into a stopped train, and Grant Friskin emerged. Pieced together with weak, thin bones and dressed in dirtied rags, he was a minnow among sharks. His figure was shadowed by the evening dusk, as well as the Blackstone Housing building that towered over the square, blocking out any chance of direct sun. The eviction notice they had sent him was still fresh in his mind. It was their attempt to expand the more prominent housing community and scare out all the lingering proletariats. It was a typical eastern business story, and had been happening all across the country. Even more intimidating, though, was the cold revolver hidden beneath his jacket. Frozen by the early November air and heated by the wrath of a man, this weapon was a vessel to a new life. A new life where his wife and child did not have to starve. A new life where he did not have to scrounge for money everyday just to keep the lights on. A new life where he did not have to threaten another man’s life just to save his own. And with the thoughts of this better world, Grant pushed through the black suits and white dresses with primal instincts, finding the prey that would bring him closer to Eden. The shrill sound of metal scraping against metal interrupted his ambitious dreams. An old, rusted car appeared and the night owls crashed with the early birds, a struggle between those with dry throats and those with empty stomachs. Regardless of evening intents, they were all caged animals.

Robert Campbell broke free of this everyday routine, victorious in his campaign to escape the dirty train. Although he should have been happy with his triumph that so few men could accomplish as swiftly as him, a fire was burning in his eyes. Just days before, Robert had been a head member on the Blackstone Housing Commission board, a respectful and prominent position that earned him rectangular business cards and afternoon cocktail parties. When he was given the privilege of expanding the Blackstone Housing district, however, he objected. Robert was a respectful man, regardless of background, and could not take the homes of those who worked so hard they could barely enjoy the luxuries of a home. This was a gamble for him and, to his dismay, his hand folded and he lost everything. A young man, rich in attitude and fortune, took his job without the slightest bit of remorse. And now he stood in the center of the square, surrounded by those he had grown to hate. The Blackstone Housing building towered over him, shouting profanities that only he could hear. Camouflaged in his black suit and tie, he continued through the crowd of pitiful souls, engulfed in rage and shadowed by Death.

Grant saw Robert moving through the crowd and found him to be an acceptable target. His suit and tie showed his wealth and his motions showed he was in a hurry, a sign that he would be off guard. Like the tiger does when stalking his prey, Grant moved through the crowd, shadowing Robert’s footsteps. His heart pumped vigorously and his hand were sweaty with fear and distress. He had already begun, though, and he would not turn back. When the crowd thickened with people, Grant moved up, shoving his gun into Robert’s backside. This was only fuel to a raging fire. Robert exploded in anger and pulled out a pocket knife, lunging at Grant. A loud, deafening noise pierced the air and the smell of smoke engulfed the square. A dead body lay before Grant, scarlet blood painted on his body. For a brief moment, the world went silent. No one stirred and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Grant. Finally coming to realization, Grant, as well as the surrounding crowd, began to run. The police were not far from the scene and, in a brutish effort, Grant was pinned down, hand cuffed, and thrown into the back of a musty police car. He looked back to see the terrified bystanders, the paramedics moving frantically across the blackened streets, and the large Blackstone Housing building rising above the scene, laughing at the misfortunes of men.

Robert Campbell was buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery, a grave reserved for him by his wife, sullen and distressed at the thought of her dead husband and the bleak future that lay ahead. Grant Friskin was put in solitary confinement and sentenced to death by the electric chair. He apologized to his wife and prayed for forgiveness but when he was strapped into the decaying life-taker, she only turned her head. Grant was buried two weeks after Robert, in a small cemetery on the other side of town. And like his lifeless body that rested in the rotting casket, so too lied Robert’s plans to set fire to the Blackstone Housing building. They were hidden underneath a wooden plank in his small home; unfound, untouched, unexecuted.

The large clock on the Blackstone Housing building struck twelve and the demolition began.