STAVE II
A moonlit fog confronted the darkness in the quietude of the shoreline, and began an unnaturally steady, almost sinister roll… which appeared to gather itself as it crept inland.
Like a child that was at once afraid of what was under the bed, but also curious, Allie Carraig, with her back to the sea, carefully leaned closer to the mysterious table and opened her eyes.
(Written by Edward Roads)
After she was laid off from the crab cannery and unable to sleep an English wink, Laura, nude and shadowy, made her way to the filthy front window of the second floor flat she rented from a fat, boisterous woman named Viv.
Looking over the broad thicket, and now wrapped in a soiled comforter she would never, ever touch otherwise, Laura contemplated the sketchy path she took to this point; and decided to be better than the grainy, blank stare she gave more than one hundred eighty years ago in London’s first known photograph.
(Written by Edward Roads)
(Photo by Edward Roads)
Allie’s eyes widened as she slid her right hand back and forth over the etches, gouges and grooves strewn atop the large, rectangular form; whose surface, in the partial moonlight, resembled a well detailed map of tributaries.
As she involuntarily walked around the perimeter of the table, her fingertips rode burrs, her eyes fell shut, and she liminally realized the haphazard scrawl was actually a boustrophedon style of deliberate writing.
(Written by Edward Roads)
She was alone with the wind… no hungry, discombobulated crowds, no assemblage of rickety boats that discharged nameless aspirants, and no indication, save for a single thing, that Dock 19 existed.
Allie, who was standing at the lip of an encroaching tide, dropped the mysterious syringe onto the wet shoreline, and fixated on what appeared to be a hulking table near the top of the berm.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Beneath a starry and birdless sky, on the center crest of this safe and magnificent islet she called Brigadoon, the sole Sovereign, housed in a hooded woolen wrap, serenely sat with legs crossed, palms up and arms fully extended.
Her name was Zenobia.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Should curious souls be brave enough to approach this very small place, said souls would inevitably fall prey to a petulant portion of the Atlantic that callously reduces any craft to an unpredictable skiff of temerity.
Before their imminent demise was at hand, seafarers might glimpse an overwhelming radiance undulating betwixt the formidable spires…the island’s majestic breath.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Tall, jagged walls of ancient rock rose high along the perimeter of an almost beachless shoreline, and protectively cradled the rich topography naturally encased within.
The verdant and lively land, flourishing with succulent fruit trees and lush vegetable gardens, was intricately connected by rudimentary footpaths which cleverly converged at a substantial, circular clearing in the center.
(Written by Edward Roads)
In an unflinching formation that featured a hint of pugnacity, spotted sea birds carefully maneuvered above a clandestine, rock-ribbed island located almost twenty miles northwest of Skellig Michael.
Lost amid the ferocity of a continuously raging ocean and unknown to even the most detailed nautical charts, decades of maritime vox populi commonly dismiss the tiny island as an eerie myth.
(Written by Edward Roads)
As she stared into the turbid, wavering mass… her arm, now tingling with apparent recovery, briefly diverted her attention to the right, where she noticed a small tube on the ground.
{..what happened to my…nothing …there…why am I…} It was at that moment the air got quiet.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Her milky white midriff was thinly drawn, ribby, perhaps even emaciated… but Allie Carraig was experiencing a physical and introspective resurgence of soul, that in all likelihood would unshade the mystic margin between life and death.
As a black and comfortless sky was developing over Dock 19, actually a wasteland tagged Dock 19, the encroaching mass, now more amoeba than hominid, drifted up to the very tip of Allie’s nose.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Besides the tight rope cable around her neck, Allie wore nothing but faded black jeans, a thick cotton T-shirt, and scuffed work boots whose untied laces hung stiffly askew.
She pulled at the base of her cinereal shirt, tore a 5″ swath all the way around, and twisted up an effective tourniquet for her right arm, which was now completely numb.
(Written by Edward Roads)
The cloudless sky, that had been an umbrella of guidance since she left the bad place, was surreptitiously morphing into a grotesque endlessness of sooty, damp grey.
{why can’t I stop thinking about those damn sea birds} She instinctively closed her eyes to collect her conscience, suppress overwhelming pain, and rediscover the necessary fortitude to stand and face a massive dark form that knew her name.
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
Allie, who hadn’t known a blip of happiness in more than 6 years, crept towards the poorly shaved attendant that was seated and staring at all of the new arrivals.
She walked up to a monstrous, scarred oak table, slammed her soft left hand down on dirt and despair, and figured she’d ask what she needed to do to be a citizen. {my God, I just don’t know, was that what I needed to do}
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
She found herself looking about as if she did something wrong, yet the not so timid Irish expatriate stepped onto American soil with a subtle, eyes down hopefulness.
Back… there, was a well made stone and sweat ziggurat that housed an intimidating hulk, a true Skellig Michael man, who neglected at the last possible minute to inform Allie that her daughter might not be dead.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
She never listened to anyone, including her till death do us part dear friend Romo, who packed his 77 brown Nova and left for the sweet air confines of Northern Maine to escape her gripping disease.
It had been one time too many, something she wouldn’t understand, no matter how many times he told her, until she helplessly woke the following morning.
Photo: Edward Roads
Written by Edward Roads
Mytwosentences 