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)
As she carefully approached the enormous, oaken table, Allie’s vacant acceptance of what was unfolding around her started to bend, like a forgotten aqueduct that began to receive dribs and drabs of fresh water.
She hadn’t an earnest thought, or a simple memory recall, about where she came from or why she was there… only that her name was Allie and someone or something had made her bleed.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Just beyond the table, a perpetual breeze serpentined through the tall, wispy grass, and created a symphonic wave whose syncopated rustle sounded like a gently plucked harp.
As Allie rubbed her right arm and stepped toward the table, she observed the pristine seafront and it’s naturally meandering striations, which seemed to imprint time’s tide in a coastal longform.
(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)
There were moments, brief indeed, perhaps better described as pauses, where unremarkable events that took place during the course of a given day seemed to subliminally disengage; as if the air, in all it’s capacities and nuances, suddenly got quiet.
Those were the thoughts that seeped into Allie Carraig’s unsteady mind when her regard for the bloody syringe abruptly dissevered… and she noticed something absolutely terrifying.
(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)
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)
As Allie gingerly rolled left to better assess the agony in her right arm, she suddenly winced when the brobdingnagian form, which was now too close to ignore, blustered something.
There was a tender, bruised knurl on the upper half of her arm that felt punctured and clotted.. still oozing… “ARE YOU ALLIE CARRAIG!?!”
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
A murky haze with an unusual motion, like wobbly air in the abyss of a scorching desert, finally began to dissipate underneath Allie’s fluttering eyelids.
As a towering and rotund silhouette came into focus above her, Allie quickly realized she was not only flat on her back, but her right arm was in excruciating pain.
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
The air is quiet… spotted gray sea birds dangerously race up and down the deep and jagged cliff lines that stoically fringe emerald green rolling landscapes.
An endless and vibrant blue sky seems to govern the soft tidal splash which tickles tiny round stones lying near the top of the pristine berm… Wait, where.. is it.. going…
(Photo: Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
“Mam, you need to have your papers ready, and please, if you don’t mind, remove your hand from my table.”
Allie, who was noticeably ripe and well past exhausted, slammed her other hand down and clamored, “Help me, for christ sake, please”… then her bloodshot blues rolled up to all white, and she collapsed.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Shill, the loyal man who worked this seaside immigration seat for more than 30 years as part of what you might call a welcoming committee, looked at yet another girl, with another story, with another…
“Hi, my name is Allie… I just got off that rickety damned boat and I need someone to show me a quiet place where I can think.”
(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
Mytwosentences 