Monday, 28 March 2011

The pursuit is over. My dogged determinism has paid off, and like a dog, I have my bone. Only this time, it's a whale.

 The ocean laps around my feet. The boat is sinking. Only minutes ago, I chanced upon the leviathan as he rose from the water, seeking air and a copy of the London papers. Disguising myself as a newspaper vendor, I lured the unsuspecting beast near me. However, the clammy sea air permeated my moustache adhesive, and my disguise faltered at the crucial moment.

 Eye-to-eye, we looked upon each other. My hand was outstretched, offering the newspaper. His flipper-thing similarly reached out, curled and holding money. We were inches apart, his warm breath enveloping me, the scent of fish and long-discarded paper boats staining my clothes. Then he leaped mightily, silhouetted against the sun like Free Willy, free and unfettered by the hands of man.

 He struck the sea, a mighty blow that send waves across my poop deck, and sank down into the azure. I aimed to follow, but the great shock had sent my mast into the deck, and the water was rising fast.

 Is this the end of me?

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1 comment:

Doug Stephens said...

The last whale I knew refused to read the London papers because they were slanted towards the Tory point of view. Granted, that was a long time ago.

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