I'll Cry Out From My Grave

{First of all, I know one shouldn't do this, but I apologize for the quality of this story. (SORRY. I can't help the self-deprecation.) I've been really worried lately, as I only seem to be writing self-indulgent crap that no one would want to read except me. But it's been forever since I've posted a story here, and I thought you all might like to know what I've been working on. Or I can't think of anyone I'd rather share it with anyway. :) I'll share some of the inspiration behind this story at the bottom.}
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I hadn't requested that the radio be put on; if it had been up to me I would have let silence reign. But someone had turned it on during lunch, and it continued to play in the background during the after-meal conversation. It didn’t bother me. I was living in a haze anyway, and was indifferent to most everything. My dull eyes were screened by a large pair of sunglasses. My whole body felt like it was encased in clay, and I was slowly being hardened by the sun. This was due to post-lunch torpor combined with the other crap in my system.
My languor was interrupted by Neil's cry of "Hey! This must be from Thorin’s new record!" and his turning up the volume of the familiar voice that was singing. I didn’t mind too much. It's not that I’d wanted to hear one of his songs, but Rowe Thorin was a famous singer, and I’d long ago accepted the fact I’d come across his music, possibly quite frequently. I stared vacantly over the lake, as the rest of the table listened intently. Then the chorus began:

"God, I'm sorry for what I've done to her
Suzanne, I'm sorry for what I've done to you..."

Those lines slammed against my chest and my shell shattered. Playfully shocked cries rang out all over the table. "Suzanne, you minx!" "Well, no need to ask about your past, Sue babe." The chatter continued long enough to drown out the whole song. I laughed and offered a flippant remark or two, carefully skirting the truth. I wasn't sure whether they thought this whole thing was coincidence, or if they thought Rowe Thorin truly had done something awful to me (or if not that, at least knew me to some extent). I was curious, but the last thing I wanted was to ask and find out.
I only lasted for fifteen minutes longer at the table, and offered a headache as an excuse to leave. I did feel ill, but in case you haven’t guessed, it wasn't my head that hurt.
I went to the room I was staying in, drew the curtains, and lay down on the smooth, white covers. With an arm laid over my eyes, I tried to calm my racing brain. I was too thoroughly upset, though. I had been shaken; I knew the only thing that was going to cure that was time.
Frustrated, I sat up. I had to listen to the whole song. I decided that rather than gluing myself to the radio, I would venture out to a record shop.
I left the villa without being interrupted by anyone, as everyone had gone out on the lake. The nearby town was small, but they had a record shop I’d passed several times, which I now located with ease.
As if I had no right to be there, I entered tentatively, eyes hidden again by dark frames. It was empty except for the bald man who seemed to run the place. Gathering my scattered spirits, I walked up to him. "Good afternoon. Do you have Rowe Thorin’s newest record?" I used my most polite voice, but he still looked at me as if I was diseased. He grunted in what I assumed to be the affirmative, and then located the album without a glimpse of any emotion. I paid for it and surreptitiously walked back to the villa.

The only record player was in the large, open living room, but I figured the house should stay empty long enough to listen to one song. I sat on the settee next to the record player and studied the album cover. It was a distorted photograph of Rowe with his guitar, and the title, The Creaking Floorboards, in the bottom right corner. I flipped over the record cover and skimmed the list of songs. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but when the penultimate track caught my eye, I knew it had to be the one. Side B, Song #4 -- 'I'll Cry Out From My Grave (God I'm Sorry)'. I gently set the record in place and released the needle.

"Got the freedom of this song
To tell how sad I’ve been so long
Gilded words can’t help replace
The love I’ve taken and disgraced..."

Yes, this was the one. The song progressed too quickly, and the chorus arrived before I was quite ready.

"...This song is here to help me say
God, I’m sorry for what I’ve done to her
Suzanne, I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you..."

I suspected half of the UK and US would have this refrain circling their heads for weeks, but I knew it was a dragon that would circle my heart for years.
The lyrics and his voice were full of regret, and by the end, my heart was too. What did he want? Just to apologize? Did he want me back, or was I just a convenient muse? I didn’t know what to think, so I sat and wept. Great, ugly sobs came from a place deep inside me, yet they still felt too shallow to ever help. Their sound drowned out the last song and the hum of the machine as the needle resumed its resting position. Teardrop stains dotted my skirt, and I helplessly watched them multiply.
I heard a door slam downstairs, and not wanting to be caught at the scene of my composure’s murder, I gathered the record and fled the room.
I put the album in the back of the wardrobe, miserably aware that no matter how dusty the corner was where I stuffed the record away, it wouldn't succeed in suffocating the memories that were even now coming forth to be recognized.



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So, yeah. This is the beginning of a story I'm writing right now. It's set in the midst/at the end of the 1960s. (An era I've had a passion for for many years.) At the moment, I have no idea how long the story will be; I'm just writing and hoping for the best.
Actually, what I've just shared didn't start as the beginning. At first, the story began around when Suzanne, the main character, first really talks to Rowe Thorin, a singer/songwriter who eventually, in case you hadn't guessed, becomes her lover. But then I wrote a new beginning, and decided the story would be told (for lack of better word) in a flashback.

The story came to me while I was reading Marianne Faithfull's biography (who is the girl in the pictures). That being said, it's not the most innocent of stories. There are drugs and such things. (Not represented in a glorified way, though.) In fact, it's the most un-innocent thing I've ever written. I'm going to have to tame the original beginning, because as it is now, I wouldn't let anyone read it.

The lyrics included in my story weren't written by me; they're from an actual song. When I first started writing this story, I was living deep within it, and to keep the mood, I mainly listened to Volume I of the Soft Sounds for Gentle People compilations. (These compilations are basically collections of obscure sunshine pop from the 60s. I talked about them some on my music blog once.) I hadn't listened to this compilation much before the past few weeks, but very quickly the song 'I'll Cry Out From My Grave (God I'm Sorry)' by a band called Brigadune became one of my favourites off the album. When the time came to pick a name for my character, I picked Suzanne, inspired by the song. Then I thought, "Hang on - why not incorporate the song into my story?" So I did. And at the moment, the story's title is the same as the song's.

In my head, the arrangement, speed, and vocals sound different, so this isn't "the version" that Rowe Thorin is supposedly singing, but have a listen to the song, if you like!



Well, I'm off to read in bed. I hope everyone is well!


{Both photos are of Marianne Faithfull, and I don't have the sources.}

A Musical Writing Exercise

This is something I saw on Marian's Tulgeywood blog that sparked my interest. She encouraged me to try it, and this afternoon, with excitement and trepidation, I did.

Here are the rules, or "guidelines" as I like to say:

1. Take a Technological Purveyor of Music (such as an iPod) and set it to shuffle.

2. As soon as the first song starts playing, start writing. Don't put too much thought into the process, and don't bother trying to force the writing to the song -- just let the music carry your pen along.

3. When the song stops playing, stop writing. Don't edit anything.


And now I will tell you how I veered from the rules! I believe this was originally intended for fanfiction, but fanfic is something I've only done once to my memory. It was just a short piece, a one time thing; not to mention I did it two years ago.
So, I decided I would just pull settings and characters out of thin air.
...Let me just say, I now know why doing fanfic was suggested because pulling stories out of thin air is difficult. Overall though, I think I preferred it this way.

When I first tried doing this exercise my brain literally froze. I felt strangely nervous and couldn't write a single word.
I stopped and tried again and it got easier and easier as I kept going. I ended up doing about 12 songs. But! I did not just go with my ipod's consecutive shuffle. I skipped some songs, like a 45 second one (There was no way I was attempting that...) and other songs which for some reason didn't offer any inspiration (Sorry, Buddy Holly). I also restarted the shuffle several times, because I like doing that rather than going into high digits... *shrugs*

I did do a minimum of editing. I edited whilst I was writing (...wait, that probably doesn't count, on second thought). And afterwards, I corrected some punctuation, deleted a redundancy or two, and added something at the end of one; I put it in brackets though, so it would feel less like cheating, I guess. :P It's really quite torturous to not do more editing than that and not add more to the snippets of stories, but I restrained myself for whatever reason. For now, that is.

I'm only posting half of the ones I did; the ones I like best, of course. They all turned out better than I thought they were going too, though! Admittedly, I did have pretty low expectations, heh.

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-'When I Go' by Slow Club-


My knees were scraped pretty bad. Darn! I thought, relishing the word my mother frowned upon. As if my knobby knees weren’t ugly enough.

“You okay?” Gene was standing above me looking concerned.

“Yeah,” I said with pretend disinterest.

He offered a hand and pulled me up.

I winced. “Uh, Gene...” I muttered

“Yah?”

“I think I’m just going to go home now. We can roller-skate tomorrow.”

Or next month. I thought silently.

He shrugged, “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

Oh trust me, it is. I thought.

Aloud I said nothing, just shrugged and turned around.

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-'Dance Until Tomorrow' by Lavender Diamond-


“You realize we’re going to be here for a while.”

Claire’s eyes were shining, her heart and skirt whirling and twirling as she danced on the arm of her fine young man.

“Yes, I know,” I sighed.

“Do you want me to get you any refreshment?”

“Yes, some punch would be welcome.”

I hadn’t actually wanted anything, but I needed to be alone for a minute. Well, alone as one ever is in these crowded ballrooms.

I followed his path with my eyes, then looked away toward Claire who was still joyously dancing.

I was past the age of a desirable partner. The only person who had tapped on my shoulder and asked to dance was Memory. In my mind, we waltzed now.

I tripped several times though the steps were familiar. Usually it went a lot smoother than this. I clung to Memory, hoping he was strong and would hold me up. But he let go, kissed my hand and left the room.

I found myself gazing dully into space. I snapped to attention, as James made his way back with my punch.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “Just what I needed.”

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-'Shadows' by Au Revoir Simone-


I lay curled on the mattress and watched her through half-closed eyes.

I lay in a daze, intoxicated by her dark tangles against the white of her back.

She slipped the familiar blue shirt on.

“Why do you always sleep in that shirt?” I mumbled through the film of sleep over my lips.

“Because,” she murmured.

“Hmm...”

She gathered up her hair into a ponytail.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she teased.

“I’m as old now as I’ll ever be,” I sighed and fell asleep.

My closed eyes couldn’t see her regarding me gravely and lovingly before she turned off the naked light bulb and lay down beside me [on the equally bare mattress].

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-'Avant la haine' by Romain Duris and Joana Preiss, from the film "Dans Paris." (Which I've never seen, I just love the song.)-


“I’m an idiot,” she moaned, digging her hands deep into the damp soil.

No one except a bird or three heard her and they did not understand.

“I wonder sometimes if I should be allowed near living things,” she sighed, regarding her dilapidated garden.

“I can’t handle this,” she said in a sad monotone.

“I can’t handle this!” she screeched at the sky, standing up and brandishing a trowel.

The birds, the only ones who could hear, flew away.

“Of course. Yes.” She knelt down again.

“I’m an idiot,” she whimpered.

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-'Sunshine' by Smoke Fairies-


She hadn’t realized how far down the city would be.

Are you sure you’ve done this before? She wanted to ask the stolid, silent man standing beside her. She didn’t dare.

She held out a foot in front of her. Five toes. An average foot belonging to an average girl.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she thought as she put her foot on the unnervingly meager looking rope.

Simultaneously she felt her faith soaring and plunging.

She wavered. His hand suddenly gripped her arm.

She didn’t dare look at it. But she could feel each finger digging into her arm, strong and strangely reassuring. Five fingers. An average man.

She took a step forward and felt him let go of her arm.

Another step. And another.

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-'Movin' Out (Anthony’s Song)' by Billy Joel-


He kicked a nearby garbage can.

I’d never seen him so filled with anger; it sparked in his eyes.

“Tell me he’s not lying to me,” he said in a fierce undertone.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I cried. “What did he tell you?”

“Said there was nothing between you. That true?”

“Yes, yes. Of course! There was nothing.”

Nothing that could ever be perceived. Only years of me pushing desire to the back of the mind.

“There was nothing,” I repeated numbly.

Nothing but dreams. In his world that was nothing; in mine... everything.

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Anyone reading, feel free to do this yourself! I'd love to read what you all write. You can do as many or as few as you like and follow the rules as loosely as you desire. :)

his absent presence

It is my regrettable habit to come here and remember.
Every morning before mother wakes up, wanting my company and her breakfast, I come to this field that lies a short distance from the house I fear I'll live in forever. There is nothing outstanding-looking about this field. One needs to have past memories to see the extraordinariness of such an ordinary place. The field's plethora of clover holds no lucky four-leafs that anyone has ever found, but rather memories in soothing, green abundance. The sharpest eye on earth couldn't spot the two entwined souls that once lay in the clover; they're only a remembrance now.
Even the lone tree in the upper right corner of the field holds no man-made scars, outward crude initials on its bark; the backs that together leaned against its trunk left no imprint.
There are birds, ever present, though not always noticed. Sometimes I hear echoes of past conversations as if the birds were parrots and mynas instead of robins and wrens.
"Many don't come back." I hear him say.
He said it so many times and my mind repeated it back. Sometimes I think it was just a lesson I memorized to mindlessly drone in reply to those who asked what my knowledge amounted to. Yet at the same time, I did know it and feel it and taste it. It felt like a punch, tasted like blood in my mouth.
Still, it did not prepare me for this outcome. I expected black or white... not this disconcerting grey.

Every time I go to see him echoes from the field follow.
"I will love you forever."
I look into his eyes and search for that forever in their blue blankness. Nothing is there.
"It is okay to move on when... if I am gone." His voice in my mind says.
I look down at his pale hand I grasp. "Why didn't we ever define the word 'gone'?" I ask, though he never notices or responds. "Your body is here, but your mind has folded into itself as if it never existed. If I should lay my head upon your chest your heartbeat would pound underneath my searching ear. Does your heart still function in ways besides its task of pumping blood?
I prepared myself to love you without an arm or a leg; I don’t know what to do with someone who has lost everything except their outward appendages. I was ready to love whatever havoc guns and army life would wreak on you. Without second thought, I would have stayed by your side always, stopped the nights from tearing you apart with unseen claws.
You were mine, that was enough. Now I don't know who you belong to. You're lost in a land they tell me you will never return from."
Whether I cry these things aloud or just think them makes no difference; he doesn't hear either way.


Somehow my remembering of the past and how we once were always turns into an inventory of my present. I must go in soon and get mother her breakfast. My skirt is damp from the dew-stained clover. Mother will look at my soggy skirts disapprovingly, as she does every day. Perhaps she knows the field is where I keep my memories and each morning I sit among them as they roam around me. She thinks I need to move on, she and her friends plot together and introduce me to men deemed suitable who are all wrong. (They aren't him.)
She doesn't understand. For now I must, I must keep coming here. But I feel... and am more than reluctant to admit that there may come a time when I won't come anymore; I will have moved on and will want to forget. Though I admit this, it still frightens me; I don't want to become someone who wants to forget.
I almost get up to leave, but I decide to surrender. I lie down in the clover and stare into the blank sky. I shut my eyes and let the memories close in on me. Mother's breakfast will have to wait.


(This story was inspired by a character in the Maisie Dobbs mysteries by Jacqueline Winspear. A character "...whose terrible injuries in the Great War had rendered him incapacitated in body and mind." [from the third book in the series "Pardonable Lies".])

{Painting is 'Girl in Field' by Eric Hu.}

The Three Ugly Princesses

My blogger is still having the formatting problems. I googled my problem and found out I'm not the only one. It is apparently a problem with my browser (Internet Explorer) so if the problem is not fixed soon I suppose I shall try Firefox... (Oh the joys of internet, non?) But! I found out if I type the whole post in the HTML section and post without previewing or going into the compose section, my spaces and breaks will stay. I am crossing my fingers!
So, today I am posting a short story (the one I tried to post yesterday) that I wrote about four years ago. I think I was 13, almost 14. Apologies for any bad grammar/choppy writing/erroneous punctuation... (Though I did make a few corrections.)
Okay, here is my story which is called, "The Three Ugly Princesses".

*ahem*


Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who lived happily and ruled fairly well. One day the Queen gave birth to a daughter. They were extremely happy until they realized that she was quite ordinary looking. In fact, she was ugly! The King and Queen were shocked. “Princesses are supposed to be extremely beautiful!” the King exclaimed, “What has gone wrong?”
So they called for their wisest man. When he arrived, they showed him the princess. “Tut, tut, what an ugly baby!” the wise man observed. The King and Queen were rather annoyed at this remark for they already knew that.
”We know!” the Queen cried, “We were hoping you could help!”
”Tut, Tut,” sniffed the wise man “There is nothing I can do!”
The Queen became very distressed at this and the wise man, who hated it when women cried, said, “Come, Come, I know what I shall do! I shall ask the author of the story why she made the princess... er... unattractive.”
So he was sent off to talk to the author. The next day he returned.
“Well??? What did she say?” the Queen asked eagerly.
“The Author said that she made her ugly on purpose and she plans to give you two more daughter, each uglier than the last.”
“WHAT?!?!” the King shouted, “This is an outrage!!! What evil purpose does she have in mind???”
“Ah well, she said something about finding out the true character of Prince Charmings and heroic figures... or something.” replied the wise man.
The Queen almost fainted, “What a terrible thing! What a wicked person! What a heartless creature! And I hate the number three! And yet I have to have three ugly daughters! Surely you told her that three is a hated number of mine!”
“Yes... I mentioned that and she said it was one of her favourite numbers and she also said that you should... um... er... *cough*...” stammered the wise man
“That I should what?” the Queen demanded. “What did she say??”
“Um... well... she said that you should stop being an asinine, silly goose and accept life as it comes.” The wise man said nervously. The Queen said nothing; she had fainted.
“What kind of author is this??” roared the King. “I want her head cut off at once!”
“I am afraid that is not possible,” the wise man timidly said, “because the author is controlling the events.”
“Oh...” the King felt very deflated, finally accepting the fact that there was nothing he could do. After the Queen recovered they named their baby Alaina Nicolette Henrietta Ivana Sophia Cassandra Joy. They tried to make up for her ugly face with a lot of pretty names stuck together. But a lot of pretty names stuck together aren’t pretty, they are just tiresome.
Three years later they were blessed (“Cursed is more like it.” muttered the King) with another baby girl. This one was even uglier than Alaina. She was named Lorraine Emerald Giselle Sara Rosemary Gloria Miranda.
Then three more years later, the last, and ugliest, princess was born. The King and Queen were now sick of all the long names, so the last princess was simply named Sylvia.
Many years passed and Alaina turned 20. (Lorraine was 17 and Sylvia, 14.) The thought of marriage was beginning to enter their parent’s minds. They were thinking of how to pull it off when the Queen had an idea: “A Prince Charming! That’s what we need! A Prince Charming to marry Alaina!” The King was delighted at this.
“Of course! I’ll call the Prince Charming hotline and see what they have!” So call he did and he scheduled a Prince Charming to come within the week.
A few days later he arrived. Pompously he strode into the hall where the King and his family were gathered.
“So,” he said. Where is the princess I must charm and marry?”
The wise man presented Alaina.
“Gadzooks!” the Prince shouted, “that can’t be a Princess! Princesses are supposed to be beautiful! I will NOT charm her and I most certainly will NOT marry her.”
The wise man tried to cajole him; “But Prince! Looks are not everything! Alaina’s very good at... taking care of children... and um... well...” He was at a loss for words because she couldn’t do much else.
But the prince was adamant. “Children are not important! Princesses are supposed to sit and be pretty!” The Prince Charming would not be cajoled and he marched out in a huff. I hear that he went and married some girl without much character... I don’t quite remember her name, but it started with a ‘C’.
The Queen was miffed and consequently she never used the Prince Charming hotline again. But Alaina did marry. It was an arranged marriage to an older duke whose wife had died, leaving him with five young children. Though arranged marriages never seem ideal, she was happy enough.

Three years passed and Lorraine reached her 20th year. She loved to read; that was what she did most of the time. The Queen was beginning to wonder who they were going to induce to marry Lorraine.
The Queen thought her problem was solved when one day as she, the King, Lorraine and Sylvia were sitting down to dinner, heard a knock at the door. Upon the opening of the door a frog hopped into the room.
“Good afternoon, royal highnesses!” the frog said politely. “I have a favour to ask. I am not really a frog but a prince under a spell. I was wondering if you had a princess who could kiss me and turn me back to a Prince and then I could marry her.” The King then eagerly presented Lorraine.
The effect on the frog prince was disastrous. “For the love of mud!! Princesses are supposed to be extremely gorgeous! I’m going back to the pond!” And with that the frog Prince bounded off and eventually he did convince a Princess to kiss him. I hear he didn’t make a very good husband, though, because he had picked up a few nasty habits from being a frog. (At least they never had a problem with flies in the house.)
“Hmph... I’m sure he would not have been suitable anyways.” sniffed the Queen.
But Lorraine was married soon enough. To an old crusty billionaire who was looking for a wife to use as a secretary.

More years went by. The Queen was beginning to look at Sylvia with scheming thoughts in mind. Sylvia hardly noticed because most of the time she was in the forest climbing trees or wading in creeks. That was where she was happiest.
As she was walking in the forest one day she walked by a gnarled old tree. It looked, she thought, rather like a dragon. As she was looking at it, a knight in shining white armour appeared out of nowhere on his horse. With the cry of, “Don’t worry fair maiden! I will save you!”, he whacked at the tree with his sword until there was nothing left. Sylvia had been rather shocked at first but as she thought about how ridiculous it was she burst out laughing. The knight got off his horse and put up his visor expecting to see a beautiful maiden to go with the beautiful laughter (though he was not quite sure why she was laughing).
“Odds, Bodkins!” the knight yelped. “Surely you cannot be a maiden in distress!”
“Actually I’m a princess - though I’m not in distress!” and at that she burst into more laughter at the stupefied look on his face.
“But... but... princesses aren’t ugly!” he blurted.
Sylvia controlled herself long enough to answer; “Well, this one is. But I don’t want to marry you. I wouldn’t for the whole forest!” And still laughing she walked away. The knight stared after her a while, gaping, then got back on his horse to go rescue a poor witless maiden who had got her finger stuck in an oven door.
Sylvia then went to her mother and father to inform them that she was not going to marry and that she was sick of being a princess so she was going to live in the forest. And before her mother could faint or her father could call the wise man, she left and didn’t return.

In the years that followed, everyone generally lived contentedly ever after. Alaina had ten children in all. Lorraine's husband died, leaving her lots of money and lots of books. And Sylvia lived happily in the forest. The Queen decided to stay in bed all the time because of her nerves and the King continued to rule fairly well. The wise man was fired for never giving good advice, so he fulfilled his life-long dream and became an apple grower.
Though everyone was very happy, I’d have to say Sylvia was the happiest of all because she got what she wanted most in the world: Freedom.

THE END!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Insatiable Sea

{This is a short story I wrote a couple of months ago. I have never really written anything like this before. I would like to think it is good, but I highly doubt it is.}
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I don’t know how long I stood there gazing out into the cold, uncaring sea. A bitter taste lingered in the air and in my mouth. The wind roughly pulled my hair & skirts about. I was frozen to the bone. To the heart as well. I didn’t think I could ever move from that spot again. I would just stand there forever - too stiff to feel.
I wanted to throw myself into the ocean, that insatiable monster.
“Take me as well! How many do you need until you’re appeased?” My mind was screaming… but I couldn’t make my mouth from the words.
I wondered how long I could gaze upon this thing I‘m so afraid of. I felt I could brazenly face the most terrible of monsters or disasters… but I always felt a gnawing fear when near this smothering expanse of water. Always I had feared the worst. And now…. It had come….
I closed my eyes trying to shut out everything.
“Ma’am?”
I inwardly jumped and opened my eyes, slowly turning towards the tentative voice. I stared at the man who stood there in nervous expectancy. I didn’t care what he had to say. It wouldn’t change anything.“Er, th-they have everything ready,” he stuttered. I read sympathy on his face but I didn’t want his, or anyone’s, sympathy.
We slowly walked down the hill; away from my overlook and away from the sea. But my sadness followed us down. We approached the crowd of silent men, weeping women and children. I knew they felt the same pain as I but, I bitterly reflected, I had no baby to hold to my breast, no child clinging to my skirts giving me a purpose for my future.
Sheets hid the recovered bodies. The sea, though she took the life from these men, couldn’t keep what remained. Not a fair trade, but the sea has never been just.
I heard myself speaking, “I want to see his body.”The men who stood nearby exchanged glances, all of them avoided meeting my gaze.
One uneasily cleared his throat. “Are you sure?” he ventured.
I lifted my head higher. “Yes. I am sure.”
The man reluctantly went to one of the covered bodies and pulled away the sheet. No one wanted to watch, they all turned away. The man respectfully left me alone.
I knelt down and stared into the face of my husband. He was so pale, so cold. This couldn’t be my husband. My husband was always so warm, so full of joy. I remembered how gaily he had sung his favourite, rowdy sea songs while whirling me around in a breathless, happy dance. We would always end up collapsing, doubled over with laughter.
When I was sad, he would tenderly wipe away my tears. His fingers were rough from his life at sea, but they could be so gentle. He never failed to make me feel better. Even my fear of the sea seemed silly when he was near me. Whenever he left on voyages, I was never completely happy until he was home with me, safe. Brutally, the thought occurred to me that nevermore would I have to worry about him…
Then, I could no longer hold back the tears, I started to cry. Not the loud sobs of the other women, but a silent flow of sorrow. Each tear that fell hurt like a dagger in my heart.
Accursed sea! Insatiable horror! You had no right to him. He was mine.
I softly brushed his cheek with a finger. “You were mine,” I whispered, hardly realizing what I was saying. Forlornly, I knelt there for a while till, with blurred vision, I moved the sheet back over him.
Rising, I heard murmurs of conversation. Plans for “cremation… the scattering of ashes in the sea. Seems natural… these men were some of the greatest sailors in the world....”
An iron hand seemed to clutch my throat in a tight hold.
“No,” I said. My voice sounded harsh. “I will have a proper burial for my husband.
"Knowing my wish would be obeyed, I felt I had no reason to stay longer. I swept away leaving all looking after me, pitying me, I was sure.
Quickly, I walked to the house that had been our home . My sadness still pursued me. I fumed to myself. “Scattering my husband’s ashes in the ocean, my enemy, would be like surrendering to her cruel ways – telling her she had won.”
“No,” I thought, “I must bury him as far from the ocean as I can. Somewhere where I can visit… because even though he is gone, he is still mine.” I felt almost defiant towards the sea. “He is still mine… and he will be forever.”