The waves chortle in ripples; his boat corks from side to side, slapping the surface with a bone-bow and starving fingertips: both have lost their names. But he gurgle-speaks to the gull and whispers ancient lore along the foam-crackled crest. He’s hooded and hunched, an old scalawag that never found home anywhere that didn’t drift like him. Sand doesn’t speak his language anymore.
But the interwoven arms of corals can tell stories by the North Star, times when he was agile and supple; knee-deep in seaweed and the salt-burbled edge. The night he slit his palm with a pocket knife and offered life bounty to the tides in brotherhood; one drop in, many drops out over the years
and frayed nets, unfurled ropes. The redemption of hope glistened in cobalt scales and weighed at market like poison vials, polluted inky clouds tarnishing every coin—hardly worth the bloodletting. Not anymore. Dusk fans out orchid and orange blaze; he yawns a welcome to the mako at last.
first publisher: http://schlockmagazine.net/the-sea-issue-september-2010/