They call it a perfect storm.
I don’t think they would, if they were in the dragon’s mouth. If they could hear the way the wind comes alive and makes you believe in demons, I do not think they would find the breath to speak, let alone to paint the canvas with such dulcet terms.
The perfect storm.
As if the waves do not rage, as if the swells that eclipse your flimsy sails are not the personification of a Goddess’ mighty cries. Ask not for Poseidon’s mercy, ask not to be spared by Rán. They do not hear you, do not empathize with your pain. They are mighty, they are alien, they are the sea.
That moment when the rope snaps through your fingers with a greater force of life than the men sodden and sluggish around you; that frozen instant of time when your mouth fills with salt that tastes like blood, and your feet are still solid on worn wooden decks but the sea is around you; that whispering calm in the back of your mind as you say goodbye in your thoughts to the sunlit dreams of another life; what is perfect about that moment?
They call it the perfect storm, but if they had lived through this moment they would find a more solemn word; a more respectful word. Of course, if they had lived through it, would it still be the perfect storm?
Picture by: Emily Lampson. Emily is a Canadian illustrator and fine artist. Check our her work at EmilyLampson.com.