Little People Sink
THOMAS SINCLAIR
The Beginning
Before life came the kitchen sink. The sound before the water. The faucet shook with an almighty fury. Deep in the basin resounded a gurgle grander than the ear could interpret. A pause like a breath before a scream. The water burst forth.
Bubble
Soap had never really understood traditions. As far as he was concerned, they were only worth maintaining if they had a use, like handshakes or anniversaries. Why anybody went to the trouble of having their loved ones buried at sea these days was beyond him. At least, he supposed, it kept him working.
The rowboat sat low in the water, ladened as it was with the day’s deceased, as Soap’s oars cut through the iridescent foam. Soap was not a fan of overthinking, particularly when circumstances were grim. This was generally at odds with the meditative nature of rowing but today it proved all too easy to lose track of his thoughts. The water around the boat had calmed prophetically. Soap scrambled to retrieve the oar that slipped out of his hand at the same time his jaw dropped. The wind roared.
A storm-cloud larger than he had ever seen had formed by the shoreline. His boat was tossed around in the waves as it approached. Soap wrapped his hands and held fast. He found a moment in the turmoil to look up into the tempest surrounding him.
In the coming days he rowed back out across the water trying his very best not to think about the giant storm cloud, nor the glimpse he caught of something incomprehensible moving within it.
Dishes
Who likes doing the dishes? I mean really likes it. I don’t think anybody does.
Ratlines
Pepper’s hand slipped from the line as water roiled around him. His eyes caught the rogue wave mounting on the starboard side. Mind adrift, he remembered an old sailor with flaky skin, red like anchor rust, perched on a rotting barrel. The night wore on, the man’s voice lowering as his stories darkened with the night.
‘Aye lad, clear as day,’ he had said. ‘A meteorite shaped flat and wide, bigger’n the vessel we were on; the Everlight, she was named.’
Pepper had drunk more than a few drams of whisky. He had only half-listened to the story. Yet he could not forget the daunting honesty in the old man’s eyes when he spoke of the meteorite and the massive wave its landing had caused. Now he understood the fear in the old sailor’s voice, as the ship listed violently and the ratline in his hand lost its tension.
Unplugged
C E7 Am
Down by the sea, I find my love
F
Where on the rocks the bubbles pop
C E7 Am
Under the gaze of gods above
F
My thoughts alive in sudden song
C E7 Am
Across the silver dunes, she is
F
Past splintered driftwood washed ashore
C E7 Am
My heart hers, I do what she bids
F C E7
I am lost to the world before
In a Still Room
Sometimes, when I have the afternoon to myself, I like to lie on my bed and pretend I’m having a nap. I ignore the dishes waiting in the sink and watch the sun seep around the cracks in my curtain and weave between the dust in the air. I watch the particles glitter and dance in the wake of my fingertips.
Droplet
It might be hard to believe, my dear, but the whole world began with a single drop of water. Long before we existed our ocean was a barren basin. The only true peace our history has known. Then the gods brought change to the world. The crash of one great globule heralded a downpour that flooded one shining wall to the other. That is why, little one, we have the rain. To remind us of the power the gods wield, the gifts of water they give us. Now sleep, my love. Listen to the wind and the rain and the waves. Know we will soon be safe ashore.
Dry
I need a fucking drink.
Unplugged
Am Em C
The foamy sea my words
Am G F C
Shining shore my mirror
Am Em C
She, solemn siren stern
Am G F C
I the eager hearer
C E7 Am
Where sunlight beats forever down
F
And winds above dance in the light
C E7 Am
She wears a luminescent crown
F
And spreads her wings to take her flight
Carve
Sud’s head spun. He wasn’t sure if it was caused by the height, or the alcoholic winds wafting from the depths of the bottle. The cap removed so long ago by his forebears stood sentinel at the entrance to the cupboard, its surface covered in uncountable marks. Sud’s fingers ran over the carvings, dipping in and out of the etched lines, feeling the hands of the hundreds of men and women who came before. He pulled a small knife from his pocket.
‘Hey! What are you doing?’ a bright voice called from further on. Sud glanced up, guilty. ‘You know we’re not allowed to carve our initials until after the dive.’
Sud slipped the knife back into his pants and stepped away from the carving. ‘Oh come on, Fo’, I was only getting it ready for when we come back.’ He jogged up to Foam where she punched him in the shoulder.
The ascent up the bottle had been easier than Sud expected. There was a well-worn climbing path for them to take with hooks left from previous journeys. Looking down into the cavernous entrance to the bottle he understood why everyone said the rappelling was the scariest part.
Foam took Sud’s hand. Neither of them spoke. They leaned over the edge, descending together.
Months of training and practice had failed to prepare Sud for just how intense it was inside the bottle. He and Foam had wet cloths covering their faces for protection from the fumes. They dangled halfway down, feet slipping on the glass walls. Sud pulled up his bucket and filled his last flask with whisky. He looked over at Foam and saw her hands tremble as she struggled with her ropes. He watched her sway. Her grip slipped. Reacting on instinct, he leapt forward to catch her, leaving his own line behind. They swung out and the rope groaned with the extra weight. Foam jolted back awake and without a word spoken between them, understood what she had done. The two of them were suspended above the golden liquid. Foam held Sud tight. He kissed her on the forehead.
*
Days later, Sud’s brother reached the cabinet entrance for the first time since his own dive. He hurried past the sentinel cap. There was a hollow heart carved into the metal with two empty spaces for initials.
Tide
When Scrub was a kid, her grandmother used to tell all the kids a story. She told them how in the birth of the world, its fate could be heard in the roaring of the downpour.
For months afterward Scrub dreamt of the end of the world. She saw viscous green clouds descending into the sea, creating bubbles far larger than any ship, rising out of the splash. She heard the screams of her people as they boiled. She saw hands the size of the world reaching towards her. But the nightmares always ended the same way. Scrub felt herself swept up in a whirlpool and dragged to the sea floor, where the vast steel shapes like bones of behemoths lay for a millennium. She woke to the sound of growling.
Unplugged
C E7 Am F
C E7 Am F
Am Em C
Am G F C
G B7 Em
Lost in her, lose my feet and slip
C
A sheer drop off the round cliff edge
G B7 Em
Watching me fall, above she sits
C G B7
I plunge into the freezing dredge
Mayfly
I wonder what it’s like to be a mayfly. Even the tiniest drop of rain could spell the end of its five minutes of life.
Maladaptive
It’s pretty silly to get caught up daydreaming about the end of the world. Plug didn’t understand why there were so many stories about its impending arrival. After all, it’s only water. He looked out at the bubbles bursting on the cliffside.
Unplugged
Em Bm G
The foamy sea my words
Em D C G
Shining shore my mirror
Em Bm G
She, solemn siren stern
Em D C G
I the eager hearer
F C F G
F C F G
Am G F C
Drain
Ugh, shit. Fucking hate it when the dishwater goes cold. Life’s too short for lukewarm water. The world is too large for dirty dishes.
Tom is an intrepid writer. They say you should write about what you know. Tom is a writer who has seen his own bones, who has been lost in volcanic fields, and has set himself on fire more times than he can count. His writing matches that vibe.
