Ferdinand: Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction

Woolgathering

Sometimes I write a poem, short and sweet,
And everybody says, "How wonderful!"
This raises expectations I must meet -
The stress returns my brain to gath'ring wool.

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2020 Christmas

When you were a little child, you couldn't wait for Christmas. The clock seemed to stand still once the calendar reached the middle of December and you thought that special day would never come. Anticipation was ninety-nine percent of the excitement of the holiday.

Then you got older.

You knew you were getting older because you stopped believing in Santa Claus and Rudolph. You no longer built snowmen with the hope that your marvel of snow-engineering would come to life and dance across the yard.

Some of the magic left Christmas when that happened.

As you continued growing older, though you still enjoyed Christmas, it just didn't evoke those same feelings of anticipation, wonder and excitement. Or maybe it did, and the feelings got drowned out by all the other clutter of your life.

Eventually you reached the point where the wonder and magnificence of the day had dwindled to a mild amusement, and you held yourself aloof from the frenetic energy of the day, and sighed as you watched the little ones tear open their presents with a vigor you no longer felt.

Someday, if you live long enough, you will find that, having experienced a good three-score and ten holidays, there's nothing about the day that surprises you anymore, and no matter how hard you try, you won't be able to convince yourself that this day is any different than the 365 other days in the year.

Then you'll just want to give up on the day.

It's taking us - as a species - much longer to reach the point, but the human race gets older, more cynical, more contemptuous and unbelieving with every passing century. Which is why, in the year 2020, with perfectly scornful hindsight, we will stop celebrating holidays altogether.

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Memorable

Memorable? Memorable isn't always a good thing, you know. Sometimes the very worst memories are the ones that stay with you for years.

When I was seven years old, we had the most wonderful Christmas party at my grandmother's house Christmas day. There were presents, decorations, laughter, and good family fun.

I barely remember that party.

But the next year - oh, I remember that party. That was the year my mother and father got into a knock-down drag-out sort of argument on the way to the party, didn't speak a word to one another - or to us - through the entire afternoon, and then continued their painful silence on the way home.

I don't remember what I got for Christmas that year, I don't remember what the decorations looked like, or what kinds of cakes and pies and candies I ate that afternoon. What I do remember is three long hours of a frightening sense of wrongness. And that memory is so intense I could almost believe that the party lasted a week.

I remember that party because of the silence. I remember that party because it was the first hint I had that things were not as they should be between my parents. I remember that party because it was the last time the whole family was together for Christmas.

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Davy Jones

One foolish lad stood on the sandy shore
And longed for freedom of the open sea.
He listened there as breakers loudly roared;
That foolish lad, my brothers, he was me.
For I was sick to tears of permanence,
Solidity as dreadful as the grave.
My soul cried out for vast and distant lands;
I hungered for the rolling of the waves.
Oh! Had I known what terrors lay in wait,
What devils hid beneath the deep blue sea,
Perhaps I would have grasped a solid fate,
And lived a simple life within the lee.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

But e'en a foolish lad with wanderlust
Has roots that tightly bind him to the earth;
My root of strength in every stormy gust -
A lovely maid, immeasurable of worth.
When craving came for vast and open seas
And howling wind and crashing ocean spray,
She clung to me, she pleaded on her knees,
With soulful weeping begged that I should stay.
Oh, would that I had heeded all her tears,
And promised then to never leave her side!
But all her words fell still on deafened ears,
And I abandoned her on evening tide.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,

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Joy and Grief
Yet angels, even more than spawn of hell,
Have power over desperate sailor's souls,
They lifted me above the raging swell
And granted me an undeserved parole.
Oh, I am proof that angels hear our prayers,
So do not say that hope is ever gone,
For heaven listens to each human care,
And every night is followed by the dawn.
Astonished to be breathing and alive,
I woke upon a distant, lovely shore
Rejoicing in the knowledge I survived -
And longing for the maiden I adore.

Oh, sing, my brothers! Sing of second chance,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
Yes, sing, my brothers! Sing, and brightly dance,
Down in the murky depths with Davy Jones.
For life is snatched out of the jaws of death,
And I have drawn a new and blessed breath!

But cruel fate would play me false once more,
As I returned to this, the village I had left,
My grieving love was gone from earthly shores -
In sorrow leapt from tall and jagged cleft.
And so I sit upon this precipice,
This wretched Widow's Watch on which she died,
And long for one last sweet and passioned kiss;
One more embrace from her, my lovely bride.
Oh, I, as well, would take that desperate leap,
To end my grief upon the crashing wave,
But I've surveyed that fearsome, dreadful deep,
And cannot face the terror of the grave.
I cannot go to her, nor she to me,
Forever lost beneath that churning sea.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

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From Nightmare Into Nightmare
From nightmare into nightmare then I fell,
And saw the monsters of the darkest deep
With demon eyes that blazed of fiery hell;
I closed my eyes to an eternal sleep.
Yet with my eyelids closed, still I could see
The spinning, turning, writhing mass of men:
My brothers, you who drowned that day with me
And sank to ghastly depths beyond our ken.
Imagination plays uncanny tricks;
I saw the wings of angels all around,
And they, with gentle smiles, my soul transfixed,
And brought me courage, even as I drowned.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

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A Desperate Prayer
I sank beneath the cold torrential wave,
Sank once, then twice, and rose to gasp for air,
Recalled the sailor's lore on wat'ry graves:
Once, and twice, the third one is fore'er.
And so I swam with grim and desperate fear;
I prayed to God that I might see the shore,
And promised Him with grave and anxious tears
That I would leave my lady love no more.
I dreamed of twilight walks amidst the pines,
My lady love and I in wooded glen,
Then one last wave of cold and cruel brine,
Imprisoned me and dragged me down again.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

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Widening Gyre
A thund'rous clap, a shriek of scraping planks:
Our ship, without a warning burst in two,
And we, in horror watched as flotsam sank,
And Davy Jones began to take his due.
Bereft of bravery, we clung to scraps
Of barrels, masts, or slabs of broken beams;
And watched in horror as our hopes collapsed
Swept ever down with all our vanished dreams.
Then 'round and 'round in ever widening gyre,
A vortex dragged the broken ship below
Consumed and lost in Davy's wat'ry fire
And we, as well, were caught within the flow.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

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Davy's Ghoulish Pall
Yet on the journey home, cruel Davy blew
An ill wind pummeling our fragile bark;
It tossed us all about and chilled us through,
While rain began to pelt and skies grew dark.
See how the rising waves began to loom,
And how our helpless vessel spun and turned.
Like Jonah's mates we bailed against our doom,
As water splashed aboard from bow to stern.
Then one by one I saw companions fall,
As wave and wind did lift them o'er the rail
And tumbled them to Davy's ghoulish pall,
Amidst the raging of his savage gale.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

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Wealth of the East
A crew invincible and without fear,
We fairly skimmed across the wild, deep sea,
With songs and ale, with coarse and manly cheer,
We passed the months with laughing bonhomie.
From Europe, 'round the tip of Africa,
And to the rich, exotic Orient,
We traversed strange and distant shores with awe,
Indulged ourselves with every sight and scent.
And oh, the wondrous spices of the east
That filled our sailing vessel's spacious hold,
Remember how we laughed and sat to feast,
And dreamed of wealth uncounted and untold.

So sing, my brothers! Sing a mournful tune,
Amidst the barnacles and dead men's bones.
As waves are stilled beneath a cold gray moon,
Sink down to murky depths with Davy Jones.
And sing farewell to all the world above,
For I shall see no more my lady love.

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