%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT May 6th Write about a community service or volunteer experience you’ve had in your life that made an impact on you. "Okay girls has everyone washed their hands? Oh, and dried their hands. C'mon please use a towel, not your shirts." I take a deep breath and glance at the Girl Guides gathered around the kitchen island. I grin back at them and stifle an urge to join in their jostling. I'm a leader and as such I must set an example. "Who would like to crack an egg? In a bowl. This is an important first step in making a cake. Yep, egg guts can be slimy. That's okay. If the shell falls into the bowl, you can scoop the pieces out with a spoon. Don't worry about it, all of us have dropped eggs on the floor. Watch out, don't step in it. Egg guts are slippery, too. What are you doing with the salt, Rebecca 1? Huh, that's a smart idea. I've learned something new. Salt congeals the egg, nice." Eight giggly girls are eager to bake three cakes. This means there is the potential for triple the mess, but, hey, it's a process. One recipe is passed around and scrutinized. They form 'teams' and measure out their ingredients. Sugar scatters all around us, but sugar likes to do that. Some of it grits under our feet. Fine flour dust floats in swirls and coats every surface. Rebecca 2 decides that we should look like bakers and this means dotting each other's noses with a hint of flour whiteness. Most of the Guides agree shortening feels 'funny', yet one slathers a dab on her hands as if it was hand cream. Someone, could it have been Kaitlyn, dares her fellow bakers to taste baking soda. I laugh at the screwed up faces. Only girls can over-exaggerate a gagging reflex. Everyone wishes to stir their mucky mixes and not all of the batters remain together in their respective bowls. Stirring takes strength and finesse. The transfers to a cake pan proceed without too much fuss. Of course, not all of the wannabe cakes will be created equal. With careful planning, everyone has a sample to lick from the bowls and a few eschew spoons for fingers. Taking one last peek with noses pressed to the hot glass window of the oven, we turn our attentions to the clean-up. This occupies our minds until the cakes are edible. Oh, there is grumbling. Who likes to wash dishes? Soon, we are dampish and the growing puddle on the floor causes our sneakers to squeak and the girls to yep, giggle. Water sploshes. Elbows collide. Every available dish towel is pressed into service for drying duty. The cutlery drawer is only pulled all the way out from under the counter once, but that's all it takes to tip the contents onto the floor. At least everything was super clean afterwards. The oven timer shrills and eight Guides stampede to it almost ripping the door from its hinges. "Remember the oven mitts! Perhaps you should move all the soaking wet towels to make room for your cakes. Oh, did I not share with you the good news? You may eat one of those cakes this evening. The other two are for next week's Mother and daughter tea party. Won't your Moms be surprised?" |
| PROMPT May 5th If your job gave you a surprise seven day paid break to rest and recuperate, what would you do with those seven days? First of all, let me state how shocked I am. Basically, I am self-employed. The years of working 'for the man', or for anyone else are behind me. Now, I decide what I will do and when I will do it. I'm not saying a pay raise wouldn't be appreciated. I'm not refusing a well-deserved break either. I am surprised though. How did I manage to arrange this without arousing my suspicions? I had no idea I would, or could do this. Woohoo, I'm giving myself an all-expenses paid trip to somewhere other than here for an entire week. No need to inform my boss that I shall be temporarily unavailable. She is now aware. Since this is all in the spirit of a fantasy I presume I may carry on as if Covid-19 restrictions did not exist. I am free to travel without boundaries impeding me. No inconvenient virus will scuttle my plans. I'm loathe to admit it, but I'm tired of binge-watching t.v. secluded in my home. For once I'd like for someone else to decide what I am going to eat and then cook it. A break from making my own bed, washing my own dishes, and taking care of my own laundry would be a dream come true. What I crave is some pampering. What I need is a change of scenery. I will fly first class from Ontario to Alberta. My seven-day getaway will be all too brief and I will not waste a minute more than absolutely necessary in travel. To fully rest and recuperate, I need generous leg room and an attentive steward catering my unlimited beverages. At the airport, I will be whisked away in a chauffeur-driven limousine to The Fairmont Chateau in Lake Louise, nestled in the Canadian Rockies. How wonderful it is not to lug my own bags to my spacious light-filled suite. The fresh flowers perfume the air wafting around me, but I do not linger in their beauty. I have much to experience and the clock is ticking. In the real world I've always wanted to downhill ski. My clumsiness, lack of coordination, and contentious legs have prevented any efforts on my part. All of these issues collude to make even walking fraught with adventures. Here, in the brisk mountain oxygen, I will ski. I will glide down a mountainside of glorious, sparkling powder the breeze I create whipping my hair and snatching my breath. I will whoop with glee as I slide to a stop unscathed and ready for another pass. Not for me the bunny hills. I schuss with the best of the seasoned skiers, my knees oblivious to the moguls. I banter about with ski jargon and marvel that the only 'shush' I'd ever known before was intended to quiet my verbiage. After a full afternoon defying gravity, I'd lounge in a steaming hot tub situated on the balcony next to my room where I'd drink in the magnificent scenery surrounding me. Once I accepted that my muscles had relaxed I'd visit the dining room for a much anticipated gourmet meal. Of course, I'd indulge in a decadent dessert. Any potential calories would've been pre-burned and discarded during my strenuous skiing. Every day I'd repeat all of the above. I might throw in a spa day of luxurious pampering. I just might explore the area bundled atop a horse-drawn sleigh. I could skate 'round and 'round an outdoor rink. Why not? If I'm enjoying myself skiing, I will enjoy skating, too. Ah, seven days of being spoiled and free of knee pain, awkwardness and potential accidents. I'd definitely return rested and fully recuperated. |
| PROMPT May 4th May the Fourth Be With You! Write about a movie franchise or book series that you love. Am I the only one objecting to the 'a' in today's prompt? Does this not infer a singular response as in one favourite movie franchise, or book series? Who only has one favourite? I've viewed many movies and read oodles of books that I enjoyed. Not one deserves to be the most memorable. Each had something that appealed to me. Not all movies have a sequel, or a franchise. Not all books have a series. When I first discovered I really liked to read and my family members referred to me as a bookworm with her nose always in a book, I devoured a most glorious book,Black Beauty. Oh, how I commiserated and identified with the main character and narrator, a horse. He described his life as he experienced it with other horses and various owners/masters. From an idyllic colthood he grew into a working horse. At the hands of different taskmasters he knew kindness and cruelty / neglect. No one broke his spirit. He persevered. |
| PROMPT May 3rd What was the best thing that happened in your life over the weekend? Looking at the week ahead, what are your goals and how will you motivate yourself to achieve them? I may have to resort to my usual stalling technique and repeat the question as I ponder an answer. What was the best thing that happened in my life over the weekend? Did anything happen this past weekend? Hmmm, qualify the word 'anything.' I'd have to admit nothing much happened. I spent the weekend alone as I suspect many people did thanks to yet another Covid-induced lockdown. Social distancing and the closures / suspensions of anything remotely considered recreational tends to limit my forays out into the public world. I venture out once a week to grocery shop and that constitutes my 'change of scenery.' Any other shopping is not available at the moment. My hubby has been absent for several weeks and I myself returned from a trip to Quebec seven days ago. I spent this past Saturday and Sunday enthralled by my own witty company. Most likely I spoke to myself at some point, it happens. If I don't exercise it, my voice will become rusty. I don't recall that 'we' argued, or disagreed. Wait, wait a minute, I do recall binge-watching several Britbox crime drama episodes. I like to get my money's worth from a subscription, after all I spent good money for this service. My indulgence kept me up late, so I enjoyed sleeping in both mornings. At one point, I almost succumbed to a craving for something fresh-baked, but I drowned that urge in copious amounts of hot tea. So, no, I did not scarf any delectable cookies, or muffins, or cakes. Sigh. I also did not forget my knee-strengthening exercises. As is their unstinting habit, my patellas complained . I'm wise to their stabbing, throbbing, and aching. I ignore it. I seem to recall replying to a couple of newsy e-mails with my own scintillating updates. I like to keep up to date with mutual Covid commiserations. Damn, I've given name to and mentioned this scourge more than once. What would I have preferred to be doing this past weekend? Well, let me see. There's an autumn and winter's worth of fallen leaves to rake from my seasonal campsite. The trailer will need to be opened, aired and cleaned. The squirrel squatter in the shed and the groundhog under the deck will be expecting my return. I'm curious to see if the raccoon, rather rotund and slow, survived the freezing temperatures. How many mice partied in my trailer during my absence? Do I have goals for this next week? Yes, I sure do. I plan to continue languishing in, or is it with my current level of activity. I will rise every morning, curse stupid Covid, and count my blessings that it has not devastated anyone I hold near and dear. |
| PROMPT May 2nd What smell or sounds brings back great memories of your childhood? The rhythmic slapping of a skipping rope against pavement evokes memories of school recesses. Feet clad in sneakers beat a repetitive tattoo. Chanting of rhymes floated in the air and encouraged the skipper to keep pace. As the tempo increased the skipper's breathing became more laboured with panting. Sometimes, the rubber soles of our shoes squeaked as we miss-stepped or slid. None of the songs made any sense, but they rhymed and were simple to memorize. Everyone accepted that the faster the singing the faster the skipping. This was a test of endurance after all. Sooner or later, the skipper would make a mistake. She might fail to clear the moving rope, or two-foot a landing. Perhaps she'd stumble, or miss-judge the speed of the rope turning over her head and slipping under her feet. I can still hear these chants, but I wonder if my feet and legs remember what to do. I suppose I once had coordination. Miss Susie had a tugboat her tugboat had a bell. Miss Susie went to heaven her tugboat went to ... Hello operator Give me #9 And if you disconnect me I'll kick you from ... Now if the poor gasping skipper did something to disrupt the round and round of the rope, immediate silence descended. The slapping, the rat-a-tat-tat of the pounding feet, and the chanting ceased. This lull only lingered for as long as it took to introduce the next girl willing to make her own jumping record. During outdoor recess, muted shouts and squeals punctuated the air. Rattling from the metal perimeter fence competed with thuds and hoots. Rarely, the shrill screech of a handheld whistle sliced through the air. Laughter echoed all around us. From somewhere distant to our schoolyard, horns honked, sirens wailed, dogs yipped and yowled, vehicle traffic hummed. We played in our own protected bubble. When I close my eyes, I recall humid summer days spent swimming at Eddie's Pool, a local municipal hangout. Every excursion meant careening along on my bike with my towel flapping from its perch around my perspiring neck and my long, loose hair streaming behind me. Brakes were for sissies and we leapt from our rolling bikes as we bumped over the curb and guided the still spinning wheels up against the chain-link fence. I can hear the chorus of clinks vibrating from the hundreds of bikes waiting for our return. As we approached the outdoor pool, the roar intensified. Voices, squeals, shouts, laughter mingled with a P.A. system blaring upbeat rock music. Splashes competed with the steady monotonous hum of a filter. Just like the school playground, the shrill blast of a whistle could bully its insistent way into and above the raucous revelry. Anybody who was anybody graced Eddie's with their presence. The unmistakable smell of chlorine will still cause my eyes to tear and transport me back in time to Eddie's Pool. Those were great times, memorable times. |
| PROMPT May 1st Write about one (or more) of your creative idols. Who do you look up to? Whose work are you most inspired by? Why? I suppose I've always been drawn to humour. I appreciate a good laugh and I respect the people who can cause me to snort and spit out my drink reflexively. Humorists appeal to me. They portray the absurd, the strange, and the all too real. One of the first such people that could tickle my funny bone with her wit and descriptions of what many would describe as mundane is Erma Bombeck. Good ol' Google depicts her as a humorist "chronicling the ordinary life of a midwestern suburban housewife." Erma wrote of the everyday struggles, disasters, triumphs, and hilarity of a family. Any member of a family could relate and see themselves in her writing. I love her joie de vivre. Basically, she coaches us to laugh at ourselves and not sweat the small stuff. Life happens. "If you can't make it better, you can laugh at it." "Marriage has no guarantees. If that's what you're looking for go live with a car battery." "No one has ever died sleeping in an unmade bed." "When humor goes, there goes civilization." I admire her all the more now that I've discovered she wrote her newspaper columns and books while living her life with a hubby, three children and polycystic kidney disease. She made time for her writing. It was important to her, but no more important than her family. I don't imagine Erma would be comfortable in the role of an idol. She shared her viewpoint from the perspective of a mother and partner. She had a gift to see the funny, the silly, the ridiculous. She understood that none of us are getting out of here alive. Life is what we choose to make of it. Thanks for the laughter, Erma. |
| Do I recall the Sims' murders? Oh, yes I do. I suppose you can say that I have an intimate knowledge of that what shall I call it, crime, incident, life-altering event.Well, it certainly changed my life.I've never forgotten the details. Time and age have not dimmed my memory. All I have to do is close my eyes and it's as if I'm back there in Tallahassee in the year 1966. My spine tingles. My ears strain to hear if my presence is detected, but all I can register is my own rapid breathing as my pulse throbs. Muted voices murmur from the house I'm approaching. I creep forward in the damp grass and pause every few steps. I chuckle now because the detectives surmised correctly. I snuck out of the woods undetected, a shadow in the night. At the back door of the house, I pull on a pair of gloves and rearrange the balaclava masking my face. It proves to be a bit loose and it tends to obscure my vision. Obviously, one size does not fit all. I pat a pocket of the coveralls I've chosen to wear and the cold, hard butt of my handgun comforts me.Just as I expected the back door opens easily as I turn the knob. No one confronts me, or objects to my presence as I step into the darkened kitchen.So far,so good, and I smile. I waste no time and tip toe to the staircase. Again, I cock my head and scan for any hint of alarm. From above, the family I stalk continue their conversation unaware of their fate. I stifle an urge to giggle. With exaggerated care I climb the carpeted steps marvelling at the lush thickness disguising my steady rise.At this point, I admit, a line of cool sweat trickled down my shirt. I shivered. At the landing, I grip my weapon of choice and tug at the slipping balaclava one final time. I cannot believe no one has noticed me, or stopped me. I step without hesitation into the master bedroom and I raise the gun to silence the screams in mid shriek. A giggle bursts from me. Oh, the family before me do not appreciate how ridiculous they look. Their eyes refuse to blink as they quake and quiver. Like exaggerated cartoon characters, they stuff hands into their gaping mouths.I have frightened them, me. I wave the gun and they scurry together sobbing and clinging. I wrench open a bureau drawer and discover a handful of panty hose which I toss at the shaking daughter. I order her to blindfold and gag her parents. She nods numbly when I ask if she understands. When this is achieved, I command that she restrain them and I test she has trussed them tightly. Without warning I shove the mister of the house, Robert Sims, onto the bed and before he can protest, or struggle, I shoot him in the head. The missus, Helen, attempts to shield her daughter, Joy, and push her towards the door. A bullet to the leg topples her to the floor and while she writhes and moans I truss up the girl. I drink in the odour of fear pulsating in the room.I straighten to my full height and rock on my heels. Joy crumples to the floor tears streaming down her face and soaking her nightgown. I shoot her in the head and her mother jerks trying to kick out at me. The guttural groans irritate me and I then shoot Helen one, two, three times. My trigger finger just spasmed. My heart skipped a beat and I almost jumped out of my skin when Joy rolled towards her mother's body. I squeezed the trigger, but my bullets were spent.I raced downstairs and fumbled for the first large knife I could find. Back in the blood-splattered bedroom, I lashed out and slashed over and over. Pausing to catch my breath, I satisfied myself that my victims were deceased. No one squirmed. No one gasped. In no hurry, I sauntered out the kitchen door without a backward glance. All my senses seethed as if electrified. I disappeared into the trees stuffing my balaclava into my pocket and balling up my stained gloves. I tossed my coveralls, the mask, and the gloves into an industrial waste container as I strolled home. The gun made a discrete splash as it sank into a silent stream.I slipped into my own bed as the first sirens wailed. No one ever suspected me. I revel in that. Of course, if I had been careless and left clues, let alone a clue behind, the police officers and paramedics ensured I'd never be incriminated. Those blundering fools contaminated the crime scene, didn't they? They trampled all over that house without thought to finding anything. They muddied the waters so to speak. Who could prove I was there? Who am I ? Why did I commit this horrendous act? Well, why should I reveal my identity now? I got away with murder. No one ever suspected me. Perhaps this was my first chumming of the Florida waters. I will admit this. I have a natural inclination for killing. It makes me feel alive. Is that perverse? Okay, okay, I will leave this obscure clue just because I can. The two surviving Sims daughters know me. They consider me a friend in fact. Isn't that delicious?(904 words) April 9th Prompt: The Oct. 22nd, 1966 Tallahassee, Florida murders of Robert Sims, his wife Helen and their youngest daughter, Joy. Never solved. No suspects ever charged. No enemies, no discernible motive. What happened ? Why? Who did it? |
| The Plain of Jars? Although I am familiar with glass jars, I suppose 2,000-year old jars could be constructed of stone. They'd be a bugger to lift though. And where are the lids? Isn't it a given that jars have lids that seal? Were there once lids scattered about? Were they smashed? I'm presuming these lids were designed with less heavy materials and thus fragile. What did these stone containers hold? Could they have been olive, or pickle jars? Imagine a giant reaching into one of these stone urns with his fingers and spearing a juicy, crunchy pickle. Perhaps this giant fancied a cocktail or two of an evening to unwind. With two-thousand olive jars he'd have quite the stash for his signature martinis. Once the containers became empty, I envision a giant child using them to scoop up insects which he or she collected and sadly tortured. As the child aged the urns lost their allure and were tossed. This plateau in Laos could well be a rubbish heap. Who would carry that many jars about? They were discarded and forgotten. Just how were these stone jars created? How did they come to exist in a grassy plain? I might have an idea. Is it plausible? Does it stretch the realm of possibility? Agatha sighed. Finding a hobby to wile away the long hours had produced far more than she'd anticipated. If she were honest with herself, her creations occupied too much space. They were quickly filling up the yard and they were bound to be noticed by her husband. As a wife accompanying her man on his raids raised eyebrows. Her new duty involved keeping the home fire burning. She could and did do that. Everyday she stoked an impressive fire and then waited. Agatha fretted and chafed. She paced and wandered, but never too far from the fire. She yearned for the dragon confrontations and the razing of villages. She missed the screams and the frantic scurrying. Watching a blazing fire alone did not compare. She needed something to keep herself busy. The roaring flames and the steady heat inspired Agatha. What could she do that would not compromise her fire duties? Could she craft something that required that ready heat? Agatha could still remember the cool clay oozing through her fingers as she sculpted it into pots. Figuring out the spinning pottery wheel had necessitated total concentration and while she learned to coordinate her hands and feet, she pined less for her past life of bloodlust. She poured all of her pent up feelings into her stone jars. She hummed. She molded. She pinched. No two were formed alike. Each acquired its own shape and revealed its form when it rose from the fire she guarded. Of course, Agatha's pottery shadowed her own considerable girth. Nothing too dainty or indelicate sprang from her rough, immense hands. Once she wielded a broad ax with the best of them. Agatha sighed and dropped yet another fresh jar onto the green grass. Hands on hips she surveyed her stonework scattered about. Yes, she had mastered this skill. Perhaps it was time for a new one. What could she put into her jars? Tiptoeing amongst her creations, Agatha snorted. Of course, she could learn to make preserves, or pickles. She had already proven that this giantess could do anything. Hubby returned home with all manner of delicacies scavenged during his forays.(571 words) Thursday, April 8 Plain of Jars Location: Xiangkhoang Plateau, Laos More than 2,000 large ancient stone jars are spread across a plateau in Central Laos. Some stand 10 feet tall and weigh several tons. Archaeologists estimate the jars are 2,000 years old, but their purpose is unclear. The most common theories are that they were used as funeral urns. What do you think these urns were for? |
| Yes, what did happen to the three fellow lighthouse keepers? How could three adults vanish without a trace? What calamity befell them? Well, I'm certain a helicopter did not pluck them from the island and whisk them away to obscurity. This mystery unfolded in 1900 and helicopters were not yet a viable thing, or mode of transportation. According to accounts of the day this island, Eilean Mor, existed under the effects of a heavy mist that cloaked it and made it impossible to see. Even today a helicopter would find it difficult to navigate this terrain. For these same reasons commandos did not drop from the sky and abscond with the missing men. They'd have been flying blind by the seat of their pants. In researching the lighthouse of the Flannan Isles off the west coast of Scotland, I learned that it is accessed by a hefty 160-step climb. Surely, the keepers would, could, and should have heard and witnessed the arrival of anyone, or anything in the measured time it would take to reach the lighthouse. In other words, no one could possibly sneak up on them in a blitz attack. And if by some happenstance an intruder did manage to breach the defences, he or she would most likely be too winded to risk permanent harm to themselves with a show of force. Were the three keepers garbed in heavy, woolen kilts during the immense storm that blew in? I imagine the wind gusted. Perhaps it buffeted their kilts and lifted the men as if they were kites? Were they spirited away, far away? Who could resist against such a strong natural force? Maybe just maybe the heavy, wet kilts hindered movement and tangled themselves about exhausted legs as the men struggled to maintain their balance in the reported raging storm. Could they have stumbled down those steps, or tumbled? That would be a considerable fall with abrasions and contusions at the least. A concussion is possible. I can see the injured keepers staggering with the loss of equilibrium. One misstep and a precipitous dive onto the jagged rocks and churning waves below might result in a battering and drowning. Most likely the keepers were soaked and 'frozen to the bone' if they were outside during the storm. Pelted and slashed by a downpour and wind-propelled salt water might they have succumbed to hypothermia? Suffering with severe symptoms they'd experience exhaustion, confusion, memory loss and drowsiness. This can and does play out in minutes. How could they rescue themselves? The Flannan Isles are known as the Seven Hunters. Could this refer to the existence of seven kelpies? Kelpies are believed to be supernatural water horses able to shape-shift into the human form if need be. Did all seven kelpies abduct the lighthouse keepers, or did a trio initiate a raid? Was there a sudden swoop from the storm-shrouded sky? During the thunder and lightning were the men vulnerable? Had the fierce storm aggravated the kelpies? Were the keepers sacrifices meant to appease the seven?(506 words) PROMPT Wednesday, April 7 The Flannan Isles Lighthouse Disappearances In 1900, three keepers of the Flannan Isles Lighthouse off the west coast of Scotland disappeared under the strangest of circumstances. The lighthouse was manned by a three-person team (Thomas Marshall, James Ducat, and Donald MacArthur), with a fourth man rotating in from shore. On Boxing Day (December 26) of 1900, the relief keeper arrived to find none of the lighthouse keepers present. The only sign that anything was amiss was an overturned chair near the kitchen table. No bodies were ever found, which has led to endless speculation. Theories range from drownings to abduction by foreign spies, a ghost ship, or a giant sea monster. Whatever happened back in December 1900 at the Flannan Isles Lighthouse, we may never know. So, tell us what happened to the lighthouse keepers! |
| Prompt: Tuesday, April 6 Ghost Ship: The Mary Celeste On December 4, 1872, a British-American ship called “the Mary Celeste” was found empty and adrift in the Atlantic. It was found to be seaworthy and with its cargo fully intact, except for a lifeboat, which it appeared had been boarded in an orderly fashion. But why? We may never know because no one on board was ever heard from again. In November 1872, the Mary Celeste set sail from New York bound for Genoa, Italy. She was manned by Captain Benjamin Briggs and seven crew members, including Briggs’ wife and their 2-year-old daughter. Supplies on board were ample enough for six months, and luxurious—including a sewing machine and an upright piano. Commentators generally agree that to precipitate the abandonment of a seaworthy ship, some extraordinary and alarming circumstance must have arisen. However, the last entry on the ship’s daily log reveals nothing unusual, and inside the ship, all appeared to be in order. Theories over the years have included mutiny, pirate attack, and an assault by a giant octopus or sea monster. In recent years, scientists have posed the theory that fumes from alcohol on board caused an explosion that, as a result of a scientific anomaly, did not leave behind signs of burning—but was terrifying enough that Briggs ordered everyone into the lifeboat. Give us your opinion of what happened. Maybe you were even there?! If you are reading this, my journal, I must be long departed from this earth. I hid this recounting where no man would think to look. Well, I kept it from prying eyes and salacious tongues while I still breathed. This must mean that the walls of my home have been torn down. They were stout walls, they could not have fallen. Renovation or rebuild? Yes, it's of no bearing. Now the truth will out. This then is a firsthand telling, my recollection of what became of the people aboard the Mary Celeste. I swear on their memory that this is the truth. We set sail from New York under a cloudless sky. All of us anticipated a smooth crossing. I'd never been to Italy and I looked forward to visiting this exotic country. While this could not be considered my first ocean passing the others treated me as a newbie. I had not signed on to be a scullery maid, but the cook needed an assistant. The captain lent him me to keep him from grumbling not that the cook complained less. He always barked his demands and I became twitchy. I'm afraid I spilled more than one pot and dropped my fair share of dishes. During the day, I scuttled about under the deck unaware of time or weather. After the evening meal and after the cook had slumped off to sleep full of grog, I crept up to the deck to inhale deeply of fresh salt air. All the noises were familiar and comforting. Creaking and groaning responded to the slapping of the waves. Flapping sails pulled at their metal moorings which clanked. One sound cut through all of this though. From the captain's quarters a melancholy wave of notes wove themselves 'round and 'round. Once I peered into a misty window to see Mrs. Briggs swaying as she stroked the piano keys. I did not recognize the tune. It did not resemble any of the sea shanties I could sing. It had a haunting quality. Night after night, these piano chords invaded our senses. All of us began to stumble and mumble. We lost the ability to reason. We quarreled. We lost our appetites. The cook ignored his duties and I had no one to order me about. No one rigged the sails. No one stood at the ship's wheel. We were drifting. One evening amidst a dense fog, a rough hand shook me from my stupor and shoved me up the steps to the deck. Two of the crew were battling with heavy ropes for the swinging lifeboat. They struggled as if in slow motion and the captain shouted. His words were snatched away, but he gestured at the lowering boat. I nodded unsteady on my feet. With the lifeboat bobbing and butting the ship, we climbed down to it, one by one. I had no idea why we seemed to be abandoning the ship. Mr. Briggs had the authority and I simply obeyed. With a mighty heave from some of the men, we separated from our craft. I shivered to see the empty-eyed stare of our captain. We all avoided eye contact as we clung to the thin walls battered by the sea. Wave after wave crashed against us. No one offered to row and so we sat in silence. Time evaporated, minutes, or hours I cannot say. Something jostled us from both sides. The captain arose suddenly as if to stand, but no, he'd been snatched. I watched in horror as he did not resist. I caught glimpses of long flowing hair framing a pair of glinting green eyes as he seemed to be pulled into the sea. A tail, a powerful scaled tail wrapped his torso. I heard splashing as the dark water churned. One by one everyone left the lifeboat in the same manner. Not a one called out, or protested. I recall my feeble thrashing and my desperate attempts to breathe. I awoke alone on a sandy beach. Gasping, I crawled away from the surging surf. Time ceased to exist. I survived for what may have been months, I don't know. A steamer passing by rescued me and whisked me to England. I never divulged my true identity nor did I speak of the ordeal. I had been accepted as a castaway. Who would believe me anyway? Mermaids are supposed to be mythical creatures.(approx. 670 words) |
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