Pointy, the submarine sits curled up nude underwater. The falcons above him watch his chest bloat in abysmal horror. The hours of his body clock are ticking fast. He can sense the rush in the movement of the tides above his head. Laws of buyouncy obfuscate an easy route out of his vision. He is convinced this reasoning would buy him a couple of more minutes in his underwater cave. Meanwhile the vessel outside is beginning to gather momentum. A vessel can take only so much pressure before it explodes to particles of cataclysmic nature.
The changing colour of the sky appears shamanic today, so do clouds in orange bandana holding their dreadlocks in place, desperately looking for cheap thrills around. The choir from New Orleans performs Symphony no 5. Pointy reminisces of the first day of his school. He visualises kids of his school running like bees amply seduced by the fragrance of fruitcream.
He was happy then. overweight but happy, which seems an exceptional myth today. He gets up, dons his khakhi shorts and vest, picks up his briefcase and takes baby-steps towards his wife. The scent of her body compels him to plant a goodbye kiss on her cheek. He chooses to not look at her. Armed with wisdom of his salt and pepper beard and a degree in Merchany Navy, he boards the vessel. He fastens the sleep belt and orders for a gin and tonic hoping to rest the convulsions inside his belly. He feels better but not quite at ease and orders for a repeat. The lights in the aisle are switched off, the sound from Pointy’s headphones seem to be the only suggestive sign of life on-board.
He woke up to the clamor of
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, This is Julianne your captain speaking. It was my pleasure to have you with us on this bright and chirpy day, the temperature outside is 34’C. Have a nice journey on earth and resist eating octopus”
