The star-speckled ocean above my canoe that morning glittered, and I read it as the world bidding me farewell. I say morning, but it may as well have been night, the deep kind of night, where the rest of the world slumbered and only the predators walked, listened, and honed. My body, cleansed of every mote of energy, lay empty in that wooden bed, and I floated, drifted, and swayed upon a lazy borderless field of water that would, in a celestial understanding of minutes, become my burial chamber.
How many of them waited for my end? How many of them circled, fins sneaking through the water’s edge, and sniffed at me, listened for my breathing, my heartbeat to stop? I wondered if they salivated.
Yet, when the flash of red boomed from behind me, it was the same rocking sound which tore me from my glum graffitied graveyard of depraved thoughts of termination. I turned. The backdrop of an island, a greyed triangled shade against the morning curtain, growing brighter ever by painful degree. The smoke of the comet’s trail striking from land, or a volcano, or a smoke mountain. What did it matter?
My ribs cracked as I sat up and found, with lazy hand and weary fingers, the long cold blade of my travels. I grasped it and my lungs found a vibrancy to its touch.
Another crack from the grey and I stood. The back water rippled against the skin of my canoe and my legs screamed against my command for them to balance my erect body. My fingers now strong around the hilt of my blade, and I almost felt the fins in the water (I knew they were there) recede, regather themselves.
A final roar from the grey shade of land and I breathed deep. My legs obeyed, and I leapt into the waters below the starry gleam of early morning. Land or not, this would be my own ripple effect.
Thanks to Phutureprimitive for the inspiration.