Mini Prose
She would open her eyes, two round hazelnut colored irises, beautifully shaped, like the exquisite fineness of marbles or pearls, never faltering in the darkest of nights, simply because these eyes glowed with utmost curiosity, glittering with the remarkable and insatiable mind, characteristic of a certain brilliance unbeknownst to herself.
The man in her life was the man who held himself at arms reach of the inquiries of the world. He was a man of stature, with a calm disposition, seeming to never rage or turn and toil at command. What he never resisted was his mistress, the girl of his dreams, the one who wore the face of a thousand years, the one who wore the guise of two dozen facades. They were crafted to match the various situations she managed to find herself in, whether it’d be pleasing an authority figure or embracing the mother-like figure demanded of her from her sibling. Yet there was one situation that demanded far less than a visage; the one she presently discovered herself with. Whether it was a simple exchange of intent or whispering of content, the man of her dreams found herself engaged and pleasantly at ease, unlike the others. The masquerade she had felt a compelling drive to exhibit began fading, like the colors washing away from a rainbow, the fading of something genuinely impure, however natural. Or it could be described as the closing of the night, as she always felt the brightening of the day, the lone ray of sunlight that shone upon her, every time she found herself in his arms. Equally, he saw the light and the love within churning storms, the perfect eye of the storm that provided cover, his cove that sheltered him from all of the frightening troubles that plagued him daily.
She’d open her eyes and fill them with visions of languid shapes of love, the fusion of the darkest days and the darkest of nights, because within these eyes contained the depth of her marvelous mind and the breadth of a thousand seas.
The man in her life was the man who held himself at arms reach of the inquiries of the world. He was a man of stature, with a calm disposition, seeming to never rage or turn and toil at command. What he never resisted was his mistress, the girl of his dreams, the one who wore the face of a thousand years, the one who wore the guise of two dozen facades. They were crafted to match the various situations she managed to find herself in, whether it’d be pleasing an authority figure or embracing the mother-like figure demanded of her from her sibling. Yet there was one situation that demanded far less than a visage; the one she presently discovered herself with. Whether it was a simple exchange of intent or whispering of content, the man of her dreams found herself engaged and pleasantly at ease, unlike the others. The masquerade she had felt a compelling drive to exhibit began fading, like the colors washing away from a rainbow, the fading of something genuinely impure, however natural. Or it could be described as the closing of the night, as she always felt the brightening of the day, the lone ray of sunlight that shone upon her, every time she found herself in his arms. Equally, he saw the light and the love within churning storms, the perfect eye of the storm that provided cover, his cove that sheltered him from all of the frightening troubles that plagued him daily.
She’d open her eyes and fill them with visions of languid shapes of love, the fusion of the darkest days and the darkest of nights, because within these eyes contained the depth of her marvelous mind and the breadth of a thousand seas.
Microfiction
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
The wind caressed the side of her cheek delicately, almost timidly. Petals of lost flowers murmured softly, as cold droplets fell from above. She looked of one who had opened the shell of life only to find a miniscule grain of sand inside.
It had been ages since they last conversed; they used to be unified as one.
“How have you been?”
Silence.
The only sound that could be gleaned was the occasional thud of that lone pinecone embracing the vast expanse of dirt, dampened by the slight trickle of a tear.
“Good.”
He chuckled, almost audibly. The laugh was the birth of a newborn child combined with the twinkling of laughing stars in the night sky. An embodiment of Life.
“Well, that’s nice to hear.”
Overhead, a wishful star stared down upon her, engulfing her in a dreary jubilance, like snow angels inside the imaginations of young girls.
She stood, solitarily, gazing upwards into the remnants of her faith - and faltered.
It stung, like a thousand needles. It stung, like one.
Let it fall, let it linger.
And he flew, like the mighty eagles soaring. He flocked, like massive herds of sheep. He dove, like the grey mammals of the deep. He ran, he let it burn.
She ran too, hiding away from the comfort of the lingering taste of honey mixed with berries.
“Hey.” Death echoed.
“Hey.”
The wind caressed the side of her cheek delicately, almost timidly. Petals of lost flowers murmured softly, as cold droplets fell from above. She looked of one who had opened the shell of life only to find a miniscule grain of sand inside.
It had been ages since they last conversed; they used to be unified as one.
“How have you been?”
Silence.
The only sound that could be gleaned was the occasional thud of that lone pinecone embracing the vast expanse of dirt, dampened by the slight trickle of a tear.
“Good.”
He chuckled, almost audibly. The laugh was the birth of a newborn child combined with the twinkling of laughing stars in the night sky. An embodiment of Life.
“Well, that’s nice to hear.”
Overhead, a wishful star stared down upon her, engulfing her in a dreary jubilance, like snow angels inside the imaginations of young girls.
She stood, solitarily, gazing upwards into the remnants of her faith - and faltered.
It stung, like a thousand needles. It stung, like one.
Let it fall, let it linger.
And he flew, like the mighty eagles soaring. He flocked, like massive herds of sheep. He dove, like the grey mammals of the deep. He ran, he let it burn.
She ran too, hiding away from the comfort of the lingering taste of honey mixed with berries.
“Hey.” Death echoed.
He Didn't Look Back
“You know, they’re saying that this storm is going to be the toughest of gales ever to batter the east coast.”
“Whuhd that you a-hollerin about?” shouted Robert, back into the bridge, the commanding cockpit of their ice-classed Antarctic supply vessel. It was a BV Ice Class A1 Super Service boat, manufactured to be able to navigate the harshest of seas, especially the ones with broken icebergs floating haphazardly, spanning across miles of nautical territory. They called it the La Peur Maiden, a French translation of “Maiden Fear”, as indeed, their ship was equipped with two Blackstone 8MB275 Marine Diesel Engines and a 500 BHP Bow Thruster, capable of travelling at 14.2 knots, quite decent for a ship of that bulk. And of course it would be able to break through large expanses of icebergs without the occasional rupture and influx of seawater gushing into the crew living quarters.
“This storm gonna be hitting here real strong. It’s gonna be hurricane strength in about an hour!” Elan exclaimed, a sweet mix of quiet reverie and awe. “Well, we better move these icebergs quickly in case some of them sea dogs need to get back to port…”
---
Sighing, Robert crawled onto the dock, pace hastening, as he hurried over to the bar “Wishful Drinking”, nicknamed “The Robber Baron” by sailors for the notorious cocktail they offered that would rob sailors of their limited money because of how alluring it tasted. It was a mix of honey, brandy, lemon juice, Lea and Perrins Worchestershire sauce, and a few more ambiguous things that contributed to a unique fiery acidic taste. However, it was the perfect mix, especially in the mostly snowy days of Maine’s seaside, in the wind and howling cold. For sailors who would visit the Newfoundland and pitch their nets into those freezing waters, they would even pack away a drink or two as they clambered onto their rickety fishing boats, worn and scarred by the weathering of harsh ocean conditions.
He pushed open the doors of the bar, which were rusty and battered by people trying to get in during the period of Prohibition in the early 1900s. Met with the shattering overwhelming heat, Robert stumbled onto a seat by the table and promptly ordered a cup of orange juice.
“Not your usual apple juice huh?” the bartender laughed.
Robert, taken aback by the comment as he wasn’t quite paying attention to everything happening around him, could only reply curtly, the exasperation clearly coming through, “Dad burn it! Ah been called to a-duty in this terrible terrible weather, where everbody get to lie down ‘ere drinkin. Ah already been so frazzled n tired but still ah got no break!”
The bartender stared at him, unsure how to assist him, besides grabbing a carton of 1% Natural orange juice from the dilapidated fridge under the table. “Well I’ll leave you to do whatever you want. Good luck on your lil sea-run. Make it back in one piece Rob.”
---
He walks with a reluctance to get back onto his ship. He walks with a slight limp from way back in elementary school where he fell off the lookout point on his father’s boat while they were out in a rough sea. The sensation was a mix of rotten eggs, chilli peppers, the prick of a cactus, and a thousand arrows piercing into the same place. It was a languishing anguish, stinging and indescribable. Painful. They never got it checked out by a doctor, even when their neighbor offered to look at it at a discounted price.
She walks with an unprecedented eagerness towards the dock. She walks with pride and excitement because she is pretty and this is a surprise visit. She struts, her finesse like one of a model, head held high. Her shoelace on one foot is untied, and it flops in random patterns, predictable yet not really. She notices and alters the way she walks, just to see a different pattern. She walks with very little sound, besides the patting of the rain as it wallows on the cobblestone road, strewn with dirt and silt. Her perfume lingers in the air; something sweet, lashings of warm vanilla, woven with bergamot and lavender.
---
She saw him.
They made eye contact. It was a vision of longing, a vision of affection and desire. They gazed into each other, into their deepest corners, enough to take in everything going on in their lives. In one fluid motion they swiftly embraced each other, engaging in a passionate exchange. Nothing needed to be said or explained, millions of years of evolution had already taken care of the message.
She said, barely audibly, under her breath to him, “So you’re going out to sea today?”
Robert whispered, “Aye, love.” He touches her face tenderly, appreciating her presence, indulging in her beauty. They exchanged again a hug and a kiss, then he walked towards his boat. Time was up and he didn’t look back.
---
The conditions of the sea that day were incredibly difficult to navigate. Winds kept bashing them towards shore, and the turbulent waters arose as giant grey mountains. There were flashes of white, followed by the noise of explosives, promising that this journey would be the one of hardship. There was no rescue from this scene, the mighty swelling of a grey-blue tempest engulfed all the other colors in the world. The sky, once a mighty landscape, quickly turned from blue to red, then to black. It was the witches’ sabbath and god’s wrath. Sight was almost completely obscured, as the ship heaved and tossed, devoid of that sense of direction vision was able to provide them. What they had was their GPS and onboard systems that mapped the ocean floor to make sure the boat wouldn’t hit something and capsize.
At this point, Elan called out to Robert, “Hey hey… Hey… Robert. Look at that.”
Hearing this, Robert quickly stood up from his bunk and stared out the window, giving it a hard glare. What he saw, 200 meters out, was the biggest iceberg he had ever saw in his life, ever. It towered like the Arctic glaciers, about seven stories high and a football field’s length across, without considering the hidden parts underwater. It was there, glowing in the gloom of the surrounding clouds, a floating menace with evil tentacles underwater. Alluring in the looks but absolutely dangerous to anything that dare come near. He looked at the position, 42.726931° North and -50.948253° West. What made it worse was that this iceberg needed to be moved, clearly, as it was not only a common merchant route for ships to go by, but also floating en route to an oil rig.
“We hafta move this one, yeah?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I think so.”
They were working for the IIP, the International Ice Patrol, thus there were specific protocols on things they had to do in order to maintain safety and security in the seas. Rob got out the tow-rope and attached it to a buoy, hurled it into the water. Then Elan carefully circled around the iceberg, attempting to rope the iceberg. But the line was too short and the weather was too awful. The standard distance of being 650 feet away had already been breached and they were already getting extremely close to hitting the iceberg.
Desperately, Robert tried to cut off the tow-rope with his swiss knife, while Elan activated the turbo thrusts to get away from the incoming ice mass. It was a bit late and all efforts were in vain when La Peur Maiden suddenly rammed, sideways, into the iceberg, a sharp underwater jab penetrating the crew hold, water exploding violently as the stored air inside was expelled out forcefully. The alarms blared in a systematic fashion, the red lights spinning perpetually in a trance.
Beep, beep, beep. Please evacuate the ship.
Clearly in distress, Robert got ahold of Elan and quickly lowered themselves into the lifeboat on the side of the ship. It glided smoothly along the ropes and thudded onto the sea, but soon they realized that there was a massive hole in the bottom. Before shock even hit them, water, ice cold, started gushing in abruptly.
---
A stream of memories flood the two men who are forced overboard by these horrific ocean conditions. For Robert, he sees the image of a farmhouse, presumably in the South. It is a bright sunny day and the reeds glimmer in the sun, waving their hands in unison. The breeze is warm and there is a cheerful mood in the air. He sweats, red-faced, and he takes long strides away from his home for the past sixteen years. His parents look at him, tearful, standing on the porch. They are speechless, so is he. But he doesn’t stop walking and doesn’t look back.
For Elan, he sees the image of a barren urban landscape. Light is barely existent on the road and the world is asleep, inside bed sheets, inside warm dimly lit homes. He grabs his tricycle from under the staircase, a rusty old bike made of aluminum. It is originally spray painted with red but it’s faded. He opens the door and instantly he is thrust into the harsh chilly air of Philadelphia, seeing remnants of snow angels from the day before, with a small delicate layer of new snow that descended. The air is sharp, like daggers, so dry that it almost sucks the air out anyone, but he’s used to it. Restless sleepers can be heard in their dwellings across the city and snores, from the midst of deep slumber. He gets onto his bicycle and goes about, first visiting his favorite cafe shop, now pitch black, the name “Jason and Kristen’s” on the glass window, illuminated by street lamps covered with snow hats. As he departs to his next adventure, he looks back.
---
They had two things they could do. Jump into the icy water and lose a blood flow in a matter of minutes, or attempt to get onto the iceberg in an attempt to stay above the quite stormy ocean. No one really climbed icebergs so that itself was something completely off the charts. They were unpredictable, and prone to cracking, capsizing, or collapsing at the slightest disturbance. Any bad luck, miscalculations would prove this to be fatal. Exposure was at a maximum no matter what. Robert knew the time had come.
He didn’t look back.
“Whuhd that you a-hollerin about?” shouted Robert, back into the bridge, the commanding cockpit of their ice-classed Antarctic supply vessel. It was a BV Ice Class A1 Super Service boat, manufactured to be able to navigate the harshest of seas, especially the ones with broken icebergs floating haphazardly, spanning across miles of nautical territory. They called it the La Peur Maiden, a French translation of “Maiden Fear”, as indeed, their ship was equipped with two Blackstone 8MB275 Marine Diesel Engines and a 500 BHP Bow Thruster, capable of travelling at 14.2 knots, quite decent for a ship of that bulk. And of course it would be able to break through large expanses of icebergs without the occasional rupture and influx of seawater gushing into the crew living quarters.
“This storm gonna be hitting here real strong. It’s gonna be hurricane strength in about an hour!” Elan exclaimed, a sweet mix of quiet reverie and awe. “Well, we better move these icebergs quickly in case some of them sea dogs need to get back to port…”
---
Sighing, Robert crawled onto the dock, pace hastening, as he hurried over to the bar “Wishful Drinking”, nicknamed “The Robber Baron” by sailors for the notorious cocktail they offered that would rob sailors of their limited money because of how alluring it tasted. It was a mix of honey, brandy, lemon juice, Lea and Perrins Worchestershire sauce, and a few more ambiguous things that contributed to a unique fiery acidic taste. However, it was the perfect mix, especially in the mostly snowy days of Maine’s seaside, in the wind and howling cold. For sailors who would visit the Newfoundland and pitch their nets into those freezing waters, they would even pack away a drink or two as they clambered onto their rickety fishing boats, worn and scarred by the weathering of harsh ocean conditions.
He pushed open the doors of the bar, which were rusty and battered by people trying to get in during the period of Prohibition in the early 1900s. Met with the shattering overwhelming heat, Robert stumbled onto a seat by the table and promptly ordered a cup of orange juice.
“Not your usual apple juice huh?” the bartender laughed.
Robert, taken aback by the comment as he wasn’t quite paying attention to everything happening around him, could only reply curtly, the exasperation clearly coming through, “Dad burn it! Ah been called to a-duty in this terrible terrible weather, where everbody get to lie down ‘ere drinkin. Ah already been so frazzled n tired but still ah got no break!”
The bartender stared at him, unsure how to assist him, besides grabbing a carton of 1% Natural orange juice from the dilapidated fridge under the table. “Well I’ll leave you to do whatever you want. Good luck on your lil sea-run. Make it back in one piece Rob.”
---
He walks with a reluctance to get back onto his ship. He walks with a slight limp from way back in elementary school where he fell off the lookout point on his father’s boat while they were out in a rough sea. The sensation was a mix of rotten eggs, chilli peppers, the prick of a cactus, and a thousand arrows piercing into the same place. It was a languishing anguish, stinging and indescribable. Painful. They never got it checked out by a doctor, even when their neighbor offered to look at it at a discounted price.
She walks with an unprecedented eagerness towards the dock. She walks with pride and excitement because she is pretty and this is a surprise visit. She struts, her finesse like one of a model, head held high. Her shoelace on one foot is untied, and it flops in random patterns, predictable yet not really. She notices and alters the way she walks, just to see a different pattern. She walks with very little sound, besides the patting of the rain as it wallows on the cobblestone road, strewn with dirt and silt. Her perfume lingers in the air; something sweet, lashings of warm vanilla, woven with bergamot and lavender.
---
She saw him.
They made eye contact. It was a vision of longing, a vision of affection and desire. They gazed into each other, into their deepest corners, enough to take in everything going on in their lives. In one fluid motion they swiftly embraced each other, engaging in a passionate exchange. Nothing needed to be said or explained, millions of years of evolution had already taken care of the message.
She said, barely audibly, under her breath to him, “So you’re going out to sea today?”
Robert whispered, “Aye, love.” He touches her face tenderly, appreciating her presence, indulging in her beauty. They exchanged again a hug and a kiss, then he walked towards his boat. Time was up and he didn’t look back.
---
The conditions of the sea that day were incredibly difficult to navigate. Winds kept bashing them towards shore, and the turbulent waters arose as giant grey mountains. There were flashes of white, followed by the noise of explosives, promising that this journey would be the one of hardship. There was no rescue from this scene, the mighty swelling of a grey-blue tempest engulfed all the other colors in the world. The sky, once a mighty landscape, quickly turned from blue to red, then to black. It was the witches’ sabbath and god’s wrath. Sight was almost completely obscured, as the ship heaved and tossed, devoid of that sense of direction vision was able to provide them. What they had was their GPS and onboard systems that mapped the ocean floor to make sure the boat wouldn’t hit something and capsize.
At this point, Elan called out to Robert, “Hey hey… Hey… Robert. Look at that.”
Hearing this, Robert quickly stood up from his bunk and stared out the window, giving it a hard glare. What he saw, 200 meters out, was the biggest iceberg he had ever saw in his life, ever. It towered like the Arctic glaciers, about seven stories high and a football field’s length across, without considering the hidden parts underwater. It was there, glowing in the gloom of the surrounding clouds, a floating menace with evil tentacles underwater. Alluring in the looks but absolutely dangerous to anything that dare come near. He looked at the position, 42.726931° North and -50.948253° West. What made it worse was that this iceberg needed to be moved, clearly, as it was not only a common merchant route for ships to go by, but also floating en route to an oil rig.
“We hafta move this one, yeah?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I think so.”
They were working for the IIP, the International Ice Patrol, thus there were specific protocols on things they had to do in order to maintain safety and security in the seas. Rob got out the tow-rope and attached it to a buoy, hurled it into the water. Then Elan carefully circled around the iceberg, attempting to rope the iceberg. But the line was too short and the weather was too awful. The standard distance of being 650 feet away had already been breached and they were already getting extremely close to hitting the iceberg.
Desperately, Robert tried to cut off the tow-rope with his swiss knife, while Elan activated the turbo thrusts to get away from the incoming ice mass. It was a bit late and all efforts were in vain when La Peur Maiden suddenly rammed, sideways, into the iceberg, a sharp underwater jab penetrating the crew hold, water exploding violently as the stored air inside was expelled out forcefully. The alarms blared in a systematic fashion, the red lights spinning perpetually in a trance.
Beep, beep, beep. Please evacuate the ship.
Clearly in distress, Robert got ahold of Elan and quickly lowered themselves into the lifeboat on the side of the ship. It glided smoothly along the ropes and thudded onto the sea, but soon they realized that there was a massive hole in the bottom. Before shock even hit them, water, ice cold, started gushing in abruptly.
---
A stream of memories flood the two men who are forced overboard by these horrific ocean conditions. For Robert, he sees the image of a farmhouse, presumably in the South. It is a bright sunny day and the reeds glimmer in the sun, waving their hands in unison. The breeze is warm and there is a cheerful mood in the air. He sweats, red-faced, and he takes long strides away from his home for the past sixteen years. His parents look at him, tearful, standing on the porch. They are speechless, so is he. But he doesn’t stop walking and doesn’t look back.
For Elan, he sees the image of a barren urban landscape. Light is barely existent on the road and the world is asleep, inside bed sheets, inside warm dimly lit homes. He grabs his tricycle from under the staircase, a rusty old bike made of aluminum. It is originally spray painted with red but it’s faded. He opens the door and instantly he is thrust into the harsh chilly air of Philadelphia, seeing remnants of snow angels from the day before, with a small delicate layer of new snow that descended. The air is sharp, like daggers, so dry that it almost sucks the air out anyone, but he’s used to it. Restless sleepers can be heard in their dwellings across the city and snores, from the midst of deep slumber. He gets onto his bicycle and goes about, first visiting his favorite cafe shop, now pitch black, the name “Jason and Kristen’s” on the glass window, illuminated by street lamps covered with snow hats. As he departs to his next adventure, he looks back.
---
They had two things they could do. Jump into the icy water and lose a blood flow in a matter of minutes, or attempt to get onto the iceberg in an attempt to stay above the quite stormy ocean. No one really climbed icebergs so that itself was something completely off the charts. They were unpredictable, and prone to cracking, capsizing, or collapsing at the slightest disturbance. Any bad luck, miscalculations would prove this to be fatal. Exposure was at a maximum no matter what. Robert knew the time had come.
He didn’t look back.
