"Muri - Picture and ocean..." by Katie Verdigris Smoke

 Picture an ocean. See water crawling to the horizon, waves stumbling over each other in their endless migration to the shore, lemmings hurrying to destruction.

Picture a cloudscape. See the white fluff sticking to the sky like excess tissue forgotten after shaving. In patches it is thicker, a wolf-grey bulk threatening the smaller clouds and sending them scurrying in flocks to the safety of the horizon.

Picture a small brown dot, a speck of colour caught between above and below, desiring either and fearing both. See it coming closer, growing bigger, taking on detail. See the light glinting dully on brass pipes, catching the metal bones of this giant bird. The leather wings are still, but the propellers at their tips are a rhythmic whir of speed. Wooden boards creak with stress, sighing at the test of the wind like surly school children. White sails billow suddenly above the brown, their flapping freedom cut short by the joyful gusting of the wind which fills them to bursting point.

There are shouts on deck. A man hauling on a line is nearly lifted off his feet before one of his shipmates grabs hold and helps him to tie it off. There’s a sound like the rattle of gunfire, then six chains drop from the underbelly of the vessel, each with a large weight on the bottom. Men heave on the chains where they protrude through the deck, balancing their weight as the ship tilts sideways.  The huge man who recently helped with the ropes now swings himself up to the wheel in the stern, steadying the ship’s course and then tying the wheel to the rail of the deck to keep it straight. He yells at the men on the chains, all of whom pass their line around a short wooden post, preventing them from slipping with deft, well practised movements. The big man nods his appreciation at a job well done, then descends from the stern castle and faces the door leading into it. It’s time to wake the captain.

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