...the Captain Upon the Unending Razor's Shore...

The Captain of the Stella Maris lost track of time weeks before.  The black shore the Maris had left him extended endlessly onward.  The very edge of the world, it was the threshold between earth and ether.  The black stone was pitted.  Its edge razor sharp.  The under soles of his boots were torn through in a matter of days.  He had to rely on the forgiving nature of his shirt, tied around his feet, to traverse the obsidian.

The nature of the sky changed little.  It was a cast of flat cloud, with no undulation in texture or contrast.  The light behind it ranged from a usual bright and only another cast slightly less so.  The Captain could only rest when extreme exhaustion settled him cold.  Sleep only lasted until he awoke by the crisp cutting while moving in his rest.

The lack of day and night made time irrelevant.  The lack of sleep became maddening.  After a time, he forgot himself and became more like an automaton.  Moving forward only by the initial instruction to find this shore's edge.  There was a star's light somewhere beyond the horizon on black and grey.  Even this, he forgot.

After many days a sharp pain from his side, from lack of drink, struck him awake.

His clothes had worn themselves away.  His kit was lost.  He did not remember where.  His body was cut in dozens of places.  His beard met his chest.

Why am I here?  He had forgotten.  He sat upon his haunches and wept.  His eyes had no tears, they burned with salt.  He looked to the heavens.  The heavens spoke to him.  It spoke to him in colors.  It said to him in gold.  It called to him in emerald fires.

Upon the ground he saw a thread that disappeared as he shifted his sight.  He put both hands down, one on either side of the thread.  He slowly pulled his hands together but came up empty.  The Captain breathed and tried again.  He came up empty again.  If there were a stranger about, they would be chilled by the lunacy of his laughter.

This time he focused his eyes, and not his hands, on the endeavor.  Once the line of gold was bright in his view he did not shift, but slowly moved his hands unto it.  It was grasped!

He kept both hands upon it, lest it fall from and lost forever.  He pulled it taunt and saw that it extended for some leagues ahead.  He stood and pulled it tighter.  With it, the rudderless landscape now had direction, he felt the thread was East.

He walked forward with it, wrapping it around his palm as he strode forward.  A golden thread saving his life.  A light wind, blessedly cool and new, flowed over his body and his senses came to him again.  He remembered the destination, he remembered the star.  The gold thread became a cocoon around his open palm, growing with each league.

On the horizon he saw the dappled tops of a massive forest.  It appeared blue.

He wept at the sight and help the gold cocoon to his bosom, as if it were a baby.

John Melhuish Strudwick