Subaqueous Homesick Blues
Seb adjusted his footing on the undulating rowboat as the net taunted his callused grip. His shoulders complaining from hauling another seaweed slick disappointment up from the depths.
‘Nothing?’ Arch asked.
Seb shook his head.
‘Fuck it,’ Arch spat into the sea, ‘so what’s that today? Ten fish, some plastic shit!’
‘The Senate will understand.’
‘Yeah and one day they’re going to get their hands wet. No, reckon the lash this time.’
Seb slumped, the boat rocking in response, ‘we could go …’
‘Where precisely? Hell boy if its not the lash its exile, now stop talking stupid and grab an oar.’
The rhythm of wood slicing water broke the silence as they followed the meager assortment of vessels that comprised the scavenger fleet. In the distance the Senate’s oilrig lay squat on the horizon.
Weary and anxious, Seb gazed at the dark shadows that glided beneath them. Daydreaming about living within submerged towers that had once pierced the sky.
The Waiting Game
Now watch me cast.
Christ I feel sick.
Notice how the rod reacts as the line dictates?
Breathe, its okay, a routine emergency cesarean that’s what the nurse said. Happens all the time.
Now we wait hoping for a bite.
A name. A name so they both live.
Shouldn’t be long I reckon.
What did Emma want … Thatcher, not going to happen, far too Tory.
Hmm, can feel something teasing.
Something else. Damn where is she?
Ah a bite, now gently we reel it in, gently, teasing.
What’s the nurse carrying, is that my son? Bloody hell he’s so small.
Easy now, this one’s struggling.
Emma should be out by now, then she can meet … Elliot … Elliot that’s what we’ll call him.
Where is she? How can I cope alone?
He’s so beautiful. Must stop crying onto him.
Please, where is my wife?
There, isn’t she a fine specimen?