reflections of he who has done the unimaginable Jianna Jackson
It has been five weeks since I left the skin of the bull and set sail atop
the old vessel with her scrubbed down deck and formidable masts. Five
weeks, my crew and I have withstood a tempestuous journey riddled with opposing forces in man and sea in hopes for riches. Five weeks, spent
enduring the ire mire of oceans that thrash my boat about to the ends of the Earth and the monotony of seagulls cawing in competitive flight.
Two weeks I have spent of the five weeks endured, dwelling in trepidation and fearing for my life and livelihood. Every baited breath I take, the
suffocating stench of eagerly-awaiting death clouds my nostrils and fills my lungs. My crew, albeit not audibly, cries for my assassination.
’Twas the piercing of their eyes which spoke to me louder than the shrill of any mouth.
“Sir, you have led us astray,” they said to me. “You have taken us from
the warmth of our women to die in the nothingness of your dreams,” they
said. In these glances, in the bitter reminder of company I had asked for, I saw the limit of my time here.
Accusing faces tried to offer hopeful smiles, but all I saw was my impending end.
Guttural terror halted at the cry of an incredulous “land ho”; its ebullience rang true throughout the ship and had caused us to congregate on the
deck to debunk what seemed like a farce. Yet small dots of green (one: the size of a man’s hand, the rest: reminiscent of drops of iron gall on vellum) emerged from the horizon like a gift from God, Himself.
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