Intermission

The water laps quietly at the empty box. Seagulls cry and swoop to the sea to catch the tiny, silver fish that swim in a giant school. The girl holds a silver coin in one hand - the last remaining piece of the world she left behind. As she watches the huge sail of a giant vessel draw closer, she realizes she knows exactly what she has to do. She reaches into her pocket and closes her eyes to wish...

Shipwrecked

The daydreams, about a childhood, beautiful places in Italy, dark ghosts, all helped her to kill the time. She still floated, alone but for the flotsam left from the ship breaking apart on the rocks. It reminded her of the stories of Sirens and she wondered if the Sirens had drawn her shipmates to their doom. She hadn't heard them singing. Maybe because the only songs she heard came from within.

"I'd rather be blue..."

How long had she floated here? It felt like weeks. "I'm bored." It startled her to say it out loud. She'd forgotten what speaking felt like. The songs were all in her head now, as she floated on a pallet she'd discovered not long after the ship broke up on the coral reef. She assumed she'd move toward shore. She was wrong. Maybe she should have learned how to swim. Her fear of the water seemed valid - the ocean seemed immense, unending.

"Thinking of you..."

Sooo... now what to do? Counted the clouds. Found animal shapes in the sky (A raccoon, a cat, a fox, a monkey, a greyhound, a cougar). Made about a million deals with God (She promised to be kind to others, always eat her veggies, kiss the most wonderful man in the world a million times a day...) and still no rescue to be found.

"I'd rather be blue over you..."

So, thoughts turn to love. Remembering moments of bliss and happiness, wishes for more of the same, she is too busy daydreaming of long, lingering, smoldering looks over dinner. Warm backyards in a chair. Feeling safe. She almost misses the box.

"Than be happy with somebody else."

Oh, my. Addressed to "Rachel Ann" and with teeny little holes in the sides, covered by mesh and bound in twine. There is definitely something inside. Something important.

She looks around for something to snag it with. An oar happened to be near. She paddles a little with her hands to get close enough to reach it. Then, she uses it to lure the box onto her makeshift life raft. The dragonflies that dance across the water amaze her. She never knew they could be so far from shore.

She leaves it intact, a little bit afraid to open it. She uses the oar to paddle toward shore, as the tide had been pulling her away from the small, sandy island and the sparse stand of trees at its center. It occurs to her that the box saved her life. The mystery of the contents gave her will to live where none existed before.

When she lands and feels the sand under her feet, she lays down to rest. Being in motion for hours and days and maybe weeks has taken its toll.

She sleeps without dreams. When the sun breaks over the horizon and warms her skin, she decides to look for other survivors. But the box never leaves her side. It has become her talisman. It saved her and she won't let it out of her sight. She searches in vain. There is no one else on the island. She is alone but for her box.

She is terrified and enthralled.

She tears through the tape. She feels something banging against her fingers as she lifts the flaps. But she opens the box to see that there is nothing inside.


Until her eyes adjust to the light. Three little glowing orbs dance around. They seem very excited, full of energy, full of life. One dances up and brushes her cheek and it takes her breath away.

Finding the water

The little girl bites the bottom of her lip as she works meticulously to roll out the pie crust. Her mom is so good at it and she doesn't want to disappoint.

In the background, she can hear her dad listening to the ballgame on the radio. Part of her wishes she was sitting next to him. It's the Yankees, her favorite team, and this is the one thing they share that brings her joy. She listens carefully to wait for the sound of the crack of a bat, her favorite noise in the whole world, next to the clap of thunder.

An image pops into her head. It's of a pirate ship, making its way up the Columbia River. She pauses for a moment to wonder how the Native American Indians felt when they saw gigantic sails making their way toward land hundreds of years before. "I bet they thought they were dragons," she whispers.

The crust is thin enough, and she calls her mom over to look at it. It is sticky and has been overworked. Irritated, her mom takes the dough off the plastic mat and throws it away. "Here, why don't you try again. Sooner or later, you'll figure it out."

The irritation in her voice is such a constant that the girl doesn't even register it. Her beagle, at her feet, is panting from the heat. A thought suddenly occurs to her - isn't it supposed to be cold when you make a crust? Aren't you supposed to keep the dough in the fridge until you need it? Does her mom really not know this?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Awaking from the dream, you are watching me as though I cried out. You reach your hand to my forehead. "You feel feverish." I do indeed feel ill but not from the heat or an illness - from the sense that life is spinning dangerously out of my control. Without control, there will be no closure, no sense of peace, no ability to hold my ghosts at bay. I close my eyes and wish my way back to Tuscany. Where the warmth of the sun makes me feel safe and close to you. Not far away like I feel now. I hate feeling so far away, lost and abandoned. Alone.

My dream begins in a sad place, a cemetery - dark and gothic and beautiful. I am standing at a tiny headstone, too small to be seen under normal circumstances. The men and their lawnmowers frequently run over it. It is covered with rubber marks from tire tracks and has been moved far from its original resting spot. Underneath the black scratches is the faint image of a dragonfly, still slightly blue and green but worn and weathered with the age of many winters. But I understand that this matters little - there is nothing left of the spirit who's soul this marker celebrates. At least nothing here that remains.

We are, after all, dying from the moment we take our first breath.

My dream shifts, to a cold, icy road. A selfish act, followed by another, that leaves the world breathless with loss. In my dream, the spirits that inhabit the waterways cry out in horror, anger and grief. It ceases to matter in the breath of an instant. Help will not come, safe harbor cannot be reached. A call of parlay will be ignored forever, echoing on the icy pond.

I am reminded for a moment of the souls, lost forever and adrift, in so many stories from my childhood. What Dreams May Come. Lord of the Rings. Ever calling to the living from the depth of the water, Davy Jones locker doesn't merely exist in the sea. Every puddle, every brook, every fountain contains the souls of the missing and the lost. The Sirens protect them from the living by drawing the seamen to the depths - then by smashing against the rocky bluffs. I don't want that fate for you, I have to protect you from the songs. From myself.

I remember water, rushing at outrageous speeds, with unbelievable force, and the feeling of safety as your hand surrounded mine. The water may be full of memories, but they have other places to rest now. New memories are overtaking the ghosts. Moments on a bridge, looking down as it rushes by. For once, I am HERE and no place else.

My dreams are drawing me back to the shipwreck. I must see it, I know that now. But I don't want to be too close. I worry that the ship's ghosts will make their way home with me if I climb its rusty armor. But for now, I will finally be granted the rest of the exhausted. Slightly bewildered, I find that no more dreams will come to me tonight. Finally, blissfully, dreamless sleep.

Peter I

I hide footprints in the sand.

Wind whistles through the reeds
But I can only hear my heartbeat.

It feels so loud the earth must shake
But no one else can hear.

Today was supposed to be better.
It was supposed to get easier.

Ghosts swirl all around me.
They haunt even when set free.

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This Friday Flash Fiction 55 courtesy of the letter R and the number zero (is that a number?) and is dedicated to Jake, who couldn't be here today.

If you want to participate, check out G-Man's ever-growing murder of bloggers (kind of like a flock of geese, only more - I don't know - diabolical).

An aside

The stories from this week are all from a dream that has repeated itself nightly over the last couple weeks. I figured an explanation was in order since people have been so kind about my story.

It's not over yet. Saturday night will most likely be the final chapter, and I intend to have a couple more chapters before that.

As for the photos, the ship image on the post Jetsam is a phenomenal shot I found on photobucket.com. It is of the Peter Iredale, which ran aground on the Oregon Coast and still can be found, although only a skeleton now, at one of my favorite beaches. It's in Astoria, Oregon. I may make my way there this weekend, since this is where the dream takes me. And I feel myself being drawn there even as you read this.



Thank you for reading, and commenting, and coming along for the ride. This time around, I don't think the down jacket you see me wearing on my last trip to this coastal town will be necessary. But it is Oregon - you never can tell.

Jetsam

I float in the water, weightless, awaiting the verdict.

In pirate lore, the call of "parlay" allows an innocent to speak with the pirate captain to beg for mercy, their life, or a swift death instead of the plank.

I cried parlay in my sleep, you tell me. "What are you wishing for?"

I wish, in my dreams, for little fingers, perfectly formed, gripping mine strongly. I wish for the moments when he cries in his sleep, which are rare, and I walk up to listen for his breathing. I listen so softly because his breath comes quietly, peacefully, and it can be felt more than heard. He smells like Johnson's Baby Shampoo and slightly sour milk. He smells of innocence.

I wish, in my life, for one minute to hold on to things that I have lost. For stronger memories that don't fade over time. For an instant replay of the moment my world collapsed. I could fix it if I could just go back. Instead of "get out of my sight" I would say "let's sit down and talk." I could change the course of events, if only I had that one moment back.

So I whisper "parlay" and hope for a captain with a heart not made of coal and barbed wire.

Instead, I find you, sitting on the lounge chair. Staring at me as though I'm crazy. Again. "Who do you think will listen? Who will answer when you say something so asinine?"

I pull myself slowly from the water. I look at you with steel and ice and malice and anger. "Who will listen?" I take a long pull of breath into my lungs. "I will listen. And I'm the one who matters."

For parlay to be effective, you have to believe in what it is you ask. Anything less and the pirates will know. They will sense your unease. They will destroy you.

The jetsam floats silently across the water as the broken boards and kegs of brandy float away from the wreckage. This time, parlay saved the innocent. Sometimes the magic works.

Flotsam

You are speechless.

Watching as the tide creeps slowly
toward the castle made of sand.

You know how unstable it is,

as the water washes closer

and closer.

The inevitable destruction

makes the breath catch

in your throat.

Yet I sit there,

completely unaware

of impending doom

As you consider

your words carefully.

Nervous that I may bolt if you say the wrong thing.

But you linger as you form the sounds on your tongue.

Knowing it is the single most important thing you've ever said, ever.

"It's going to be OK."

I look up from the sand, feeling it trickle between my fingers, and cock my head to the side.

The wind has died. All I can hear is the sound of the tiny waves as they inch closer and closer to the palace I've built. If I had made it from the flotsam in the sand would it have a chance?

Or does it even matter?

I can build another one.

I have a bucket and a pail and a picture in my head.

"I know. But do you believe?"

A gull cries as you take my hand in yours, brush my hair out of my eyes. I'm daydreaming of fireflies in a jar while the gulls circle our lunch, waiting for opportunity.

Maybe some day my senses will return, I think, and I'll wake up to the sound of laughter and cartoons and the feel of little bodies crawling in to warm. Hear your breathing and be home again.