page five: kelvin
You storm out of the room. Out of the building, into your car. You start the engine fast. You step on the gas harder. Where would you go now? You begin to palpitate. Your palms begin to perspire. Your smile gives in to a smirk on your face. Everything you wanted, now you have. No more shit from your boss. You step on the gas again. Maybe replace this junk of a vehicle. That would impress the women. Take a number. Take a number, Miss. You laugh. Really, what would you do now?
Flashbulb. You jam on your brakes. Thank God for seatbelts.
You’ve always wanted to sail. On your own.
Ah.
Soon enough, you’re on a ship you bought for peanuts. You’re rather rusty from your navigation days, but screw that. You don’t want to think. No more shit from the world. You’re now a free man. Breeze. Salt water on your face. The sun. No sight of land. In the middle of sea. Heading to- heading to? You don’t care. You don’t want to. But you can’t be on a ship forever. Or can you? Hm. You take out your guidebook anyway.
Choices, choices. You’ve not felt like this before. You make the decision now. You close your eyes and circle the second page with your finger. You stop and point at a spot. You regain sight. The island of Anguilla. In the heart of the Caribbean. You flip to the page 34. “Sparsely inhabited… orgasmic sights… rapturous beaches.” You work out the coordinates. Done. To Anguilla it is.
You steer to the right. Southwest. Breeze. You see yourself sipping pineapple cream by the beach palms. Breeze. You see yourself waddling in the endless pool of cool water. Breeze. You see topless women. You salivate. Breeze. You see another ship right ahead of you. Huh? You fix your gaze. A larger ship just a hundred meters away. Shit. There’s no way to deflect in time.
Bang. Pain.
Déjà vu.
You open your eyes. You find yourself holding onto an old raft. Your right hand clutches a bottle of clear liquid. There are no ships in the vicinity. Float, float. This has got to be some joke. What happens if you died right now? God wouldn’t be too happy. You wouldn’t be too- nah, you’ve heard that bit before.
Flashbulb. You jam on your brakes. Thank God for seatbelts.
You’ve always wanted to sail. On your own.
Ah.
Soon enough, you’re on a ship you bought for peanuts. You’re rather rusty from your navigation days, but screw that. You don’t want to think. No more shit from the world. You’re now a free man. Breeze. Salt water on your face. The sun. No sight of land. In the middle of sea. Heading to- heading to? You don’t care. You don’t want to. But you can’t be on a ship forever. Or can you? Hm. You take out your guidebook anyway.
Choices, choices. You’ve not felt like this before. You make the decision now. You close your eyes and circle the second page with your finger. You stop and point at a spot. You regain sight. The island of Anguilla. In the heart of the Caribbean. You flip to the page 34. “Sparsely inhabited… orgasmic sights… rapturous beaches.” You work out the coordinates. Done. To Anguilla it is.
You steer to the right. Southwest. Breeze. You see yourself sipping pineapple cream by the beach palms. Breeze. You see yourself waddling in the endless pool of cool water. Breeze. You see topless women. You salivate. Breeze. You see another ship right ahead of you. Huh? You fix your gaze. A larger ship just a hundred meters away. Shit. There’s no way to deflect in time.
Bang. Pain.
Déjà vu.
You open your eyes. You find yourself holding onto an old raft. Your right hand clutches a bottle of clear liquid. There are no ships in the vicinity. Float, float. This has got to be some joke. What happens if you died right now? God wouldn’t be too happy. You wouldn’t be too- nah, you’ve heard that bit before.
posted by kelvin at 4:08 PM
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