Quiet Tales

 

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Moonlit Waters

    Dark waters roll and surge beneath the wood of the bow as the storm rages in swirls and sparks of light overhead, tipping the boat at perilous angles. Thunder and the slap of water threatening to capsize the boat mix in a dangerous, urging beat, like the clock of the world is ticking eagerly towards the next moment, the next scene, the next exciting movement of the show. 

    It's as if the world is waiting anxiously for what's about to happen, as if the Fates themselves don't know what to expect. Everything watches in a maddening frenzy as the lone figure in the row boat stands, keeping on its feet by mere luck. It hunches over something in its hands, sheltering as much as possible from the relentless torrents of rain. The thunder hesitates, and the rain subsides, as though trying to listen, trying to watch every little detail, nature vying with itself for the best seat in the house. 

    Finally, a hand, small and pale in the dark expanse of the storm-ridden seas, reaches out to the water, trembling faintly just over the surface. Its the only thing seen of the figure from beneath heavy, water-logged clothes. Tension rises in the world, so thick it seems as though nothing should be able to breath. 

    A faint gleam begins to fill the water underneath the small rowboat, as though the ocean had swallowed the moon when it sank the night before, and was now offering it up to the figure, still aglow. The radiance spreads, becoming bigger, brighter, until it seems as though the figure could put its hand in the water and do what every mortal has wished to do: touch the moon herself. 

    But the figure waits, hand inches over a spot on the water that remains unusually calm as the storms winds push at the water, forcing waves higher and higher, creating a crater-like look to the area where the figure waited in its boat. The air around stills, and the storm makes room for the occurring events, still rampaging through the waters in the distance, but leaving the moon to herself. 

    Out of the air, a voice seemed to drift in like fog, slow, creeping, stalking, whispering lingering words to the figure. 

    "Og mannen kommer til sin drøm. Speak what you wish, that this hand might hold."

    Lightning flickers across the dark clouds, but no thunder follows, the entire world silenced but for the clouded voice and the figure. The person on the boat drops low on its knees, bowing as far as the wood would allow while the hand remained outstretched. "Vakker Måne, I wish to be King of these seas." 

    The circle of peace began to shrink, slowly, each towering wave inches closer than the previous, the crater closing in on itself at last. The fog, fading on the receding peace, whispers, "Selvfølgelig. Be King of these seas, gutt." 

    The circle closes, and the boat is left rocking and tilting again, almost dumping the figure out. The moon-like glow beneath the water sinks like a slow stone, until it is as though it had never been there at all, the waters looking darker and thicker for its absence. Rain drops the figure, and as it struggles to keep its eyes clear, a wave that had been lying in wait beneath the surface pounces, tilting the boat and tossing the figure into the water, flailing and splashing, struggling now not to see, but to breathe. 

    Lightning flashes and thunder crashes, like a dramatic stage cue for some foreboding character to enter, to show themselves. But nothing changes. The figure grew calm, but still was swamped by each passing wave, as though the water were trying to push it under. The waters remain dark, and the skies remain resentful, and the gusts of wind remain stiff. 

    Then a shadow, darker than the water and close enough to leave ripples on the surface, passes twice by the figure who begins to panic again, this time trying to swim to the boat that has drifted farther away. Lightning crackles across the sky like broken laughter as the figure fails to make any progress, and the fish-like shadow moves in again for a closer look. 

    The shadow darts and dodges, pulling the figure below the surface for just a moment, as though trying to see if it would bob up again and float. The figure, looking more and more part of the water as it drags down on its clothes and hair, breaks the surface, gasping breaths lost in the constant roar of rain, wind, and waves. The boat is gone, lost to sight, with only a monotonous maze of unstable waves left in its place. 

    Like a lithe, man-like shark, the shadow skimmed the just beneath the waves, graceful fins barely breaking the surface as it circled the figure, and then dove, and the figure dove with it, screams and thrashes lost in the laughter of the storm. All the boater could hold in its hands was a red crown of coral, far from the eyes of the sun. 

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Laurel Chase

im melting help oh my god this is beautiful

~

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