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The Wandering Deep

The ocean pulls and connives. A cavernous volume, incomplete yet complicit in my demise. The bows strain to ache in slow simpering tones as claws on ice about to break.

The deep holds little promises but that of a cold and endless abandon. As wanton shadows crowd to perform the last dance before the dying light. It pulls us down, a mechanical monolith at once in life and passing but now a pure decay.

Inside are footprints, echoes and fingerprints, a microbial DNA of a past in tandem with the end.

The bow breaks.

A rush.

Relief.

Set beneath the ancient stars.

The wandering deep.

If you listen carefully you can still hear it. The sound of drunken bilious laughter. The cackle, the clink, the rugged stomp of iron boots. The rage towards the night. The troubled dream awash upon the wanton ocean.

The wake pulls down.

The impossible urge.

To complete.

The storm above forgotten; in endless crumbling sleep we rest.

Story by:

Laurence Guy

laurence.guy@gmail.com

17 April 2014