Wellington Street

In which we take a stroll down a very strange lane.


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Building 8 "Something on the Deck"

“The ocean rolls and bubbles and foams. I look over the edge of the deck, all alone. All alone. I told everyone I would be back. That radio keeps crackling and crackling. I look over the side of the deck, and to the water, the waves rising and falling. The ones under the water look up at me. A figure looks over at me. A black shape set stationary against the water. And he is watching me. And he is getting closer. The waves rise. He disappears. The wave falls. And he is closer.

He whispers and calls. His wet hair matted against his face and lips. Mumbling. Mumbling. I try the radio again, and he screams. I ignore him, and try it again. But it is broken. It is broken. And it keeps crackling and going silent. I try to reach help, but they won't find me. I don't even know where I am. I look back to the deck. The lights on the deck have dimmed. I look off into the storm. The waves rise and fall. He disappears. Then he is on the deck of the ship. He smells of black clay under the sand. He is mumbling.

I am tired. Tired of trying to keep all this together. To keep all this together. He doesn't want me to do this alone. The sky sinks to a deeper gray, and the storm grows, the rain falling as sheets across the steel deck. And the figure of black stands on the deck and looks at me. The rest of the crew have already joined him. They are under the water, looking up at me, waiting for me over the railing. They couldn't find a reason to say no.

I am forgetting. There is a picture in my hand and I am forgetting. A woman. I don't remember why she is important. She is lovely. She is smiling. She is smiling. And the man on the deck keeps telling me to give him the picture. But I won't. The picture is important. I need to keep it. The storm will pass. It will pass and then I can go home. I can go back to port. Just have to wait out the storm. There is hail now, pattering on the deck. The dark void looks at me, little red eyes set far into his sockets.

I need the picture. He wants the picture. My mind feels distracted. I can't focus. I keep looking at the picture. It is all I have left. The only thing holding any of this together. I can't remember anything else. But I know she is important. He wouldn't want it otherwise. I can see the storm fading. The hail has stopped. The clouds are lightening. I just need to hold onto the photo.

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