Ship in a Storm

Today I am here with another story. Very apparently it will be a metaphor, but don’t let that stop you from listening. This happens to me a lot: I would be reading something and suddenly—zoop—I am in a hut in Nagaland, scared about militancy around, scared for life.

Khair.

Dedicated to a brother from my hometown. The story is about a ship. A ship that sails across a river in a distant land.

The ship has two people in it, but we don’t focus on them. Why should we? But the ship doesn’t move until we look at them. So what we will do, from time to time, is pay a little attention for continuity.

It’s an old ship. The deck has cracks; the side walls look shattered, like it’s been bombed, but it floats nicely.

John and Sam are smoking on the deck.

The water is freezing—not frozen, it’s still freezing. The ship shouldn’t have been here. It’s only December and the shore is nowhere to be seen. The sail is worried.

Worried to the core about being the last one to die, the top to freeze last, to sink last.

Days have passed. Everyone on the ship wakes up to a storm. It’s late night. The ship is stuck. We need to talk about the two sailors. It might move the ship.
I am afraid for the ship. I am afraid for the sail.

Sam can’t find his box of cigarettes. It’s no surprise; it could have been any day now.

It’s been so long that the date of departure is no longer known to the ship. Storms are growing, the ship rocking on the waves. A rat has long lived at sea. She didn’t come onboard; she was born on the ship. I would say, eighty percent of the time, she lived in a jar that once had fresh tampons—which seemed weird, as no women seem to be on board. I promise I am doing it for the ship.

John just lit one in the cellar. It was not recommended to smoke there; after all, it was all wood. A jerk hits. John is now on the floor, cigarette still lit, tight in his lips.

It seems to be working; we can see the world outside the storm. The rat is still worried, though. She doesn’t understand her existence. How would you, without anyone else to validate it? And in that space, when rocking waves hit, water splashes, and you have the idea that you have to go without answers—that’s haunting. I will talk more about humans; it helped last time.

Sam enters John’s cabin, snatches the cigarette, puts it to his lips, takes a puff, launches a fist, throws a foot. John is now on the floor. The ship rocks aggressively.

I am not sure if that helped. They have stopped making the ship move. They are throwing themselves at each other. How do I help?

The sail touches water, requesting mercy. No luck. The ship rocks. The ship prays. The ship starts to sink.

John and Sam lie on the floor, waiting to die.
The rat floats lifeless.
The sail flies off the ship; asking for help pays off.
We lose. They lose. The ship sinks.