"Captain Mourning"

Rob Carlson


Is there a death song for the wretched wallowers that cling with nervous hands to any railing they can grasp? As the ship rocks and
the waves crash, is there a death song for those souls who, drenched by the ocean's spray, are about to lose themselves in the
depths of an insurmountable conflict?

If there is a song for those souls, who wrote the words, and where is the singer now? Silence crawls around the corners of so many
torrid dreams that when the time for singing arrives, the sound is as a nightmare.

This is the truth that the wretched live with, that their voice is a horrible thing; their naked souls are mere flecks of spittle spewed by
some frothy god. On this sea and in these boats, they travel at length, charting and searching for a new coastline, for a new place to
steady their feet. And who has an answer for their lethargy, for their slothful movements? Who has a song for their hazy eyes and
shattered speech?

The great pirate ship Soul Devourer had not made much progress. The winds died days past. Captain Mourning stood watching his
crew work on the deck. At first he didn't hear the sailor address him.

"Captain?"

"Oh, it's you Zoily. I was thinking. I might alter our course a bit. Let's get some oarsmen ready. We need to find the wind."

"Sure Captain, but the wind ain't the only problem now," said Zoily.

"Well? What then?"

"Captain, the bread's got bugs and the cabbage's got shit. Rats I think," Zoily reported frankly to Captain Mourning.

"I see," said the Captain. "And how then shall we nourish our shells upon this voyage?"

"Troy Montgomery is rather ill sir. His eyes are all sunk and yellow spots scuttle across his flesh. Might be he dies tonight, might be
he dies next month."

"Of course Troy has my sympathy, but I don't see how that is relevant to the fact that our cabbage contains rat feces and small insects
have constructed kingdoms within our bread?"

"Point sir, if I may. I was thinking maybe Troy dies tonight, right? Whether or not his, uh, sickness wants?"

"Are you suggesting we murder Troy Montgomery and then eat his sickened corpse?"

"Aye sir, that's the ticket," said the sailor.

Singular against,
Irregular nights,
Those lives broke,
because they ate them.
Paused; slow burning
The faces of comrades,
Chewing...

The ship sliced through the water, leaping and crashing against the sea as waves splashed over the railing. There was nothing but
blue water in every direction, no signs of land upon any horizon - just salt spray, clouds, and sunshine. Sails billowed full of air and
the wakes cut white behind the vessel.

Captain Mourning stood at the stern with a hat upon his head and of course, a parrot perched upon his shoulder.

"Arrr," said Captain Mourning.

"Arr," squawked the parrot.

Besides the parrot, Captain Mourning was alone. The ship sailed through the blue. No other souls were in sight.

"Arrrghh," said Captain Mourning.

"Argh," squawked the parrot.

Thus they continued for many a moon until one chilled morning when a shoreline appeared on the northern horizon.

Meanwhile, on the nearest land, specters twirled their cracked fingers through brittle hair. They spun in exaggerated circles among the
rafters of an old abandoned church. Below them were rows of rotting pews and an altar, long since desecrated. Any semblance of
holiness was marred with dark smears of unknown origin and anything of value had been stolen. The specters danced through the air,
intent upon their movements, as if the state of their home did not sadden them, as if they had been there dancing long before any church
had been constructed, and indeed when it had, it was built around them. They sang sporadic dirges. They coughed crackling screams.
It was a dark place and their movements seemed to reflect this; a dire time indeed.

The specters' melodies were barely audible. Indeed their songs had weakened due to a lack of vessels to carry and deliver their brackish
venom. Those specters awaited a rescuer. They waited for someone to sing with them, to play some music to their words. They waited
for someone to devour. But nobody came and they would have cried if any moisture remained behind their ghastly eyes.

Eventually Captain Mourning, half drowned, stumbled into the abandoned church.

"Arr arrgh me spectries," he moaned and then toppled, planting his face against the floor.

The specters stopped dancing and, eyeing one another with stunned surprise, sprang upon the stricken Captain. With the appetite
of eternity, they consumed.


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