Departure: by Philip Kane

This is how it began, or at least how it may be recorded.  Into the waters of departure, I flung three silver coins, each bearing the head of a horned and garter-clad ambassador.  I did this each day until the last of the torches on the quayside stuttered a warning, as if twilight was the last curtain in a blackened theatre. 

Released from a weight of the past, everything burst clear of the gates, a teardrop falling behind and slowly dissolving beneath the merciless gaze of a lizard that basked on the rocks.  Its eyes, so heavily lidded, blinked with a terrible languor; the warts spread across its back regenerating as quickly as they burst. 

While in among the wild pine cones of the coast, cloaks were left to flutter vainly where they had caught on spines, and the loud crash and rush of wooden waves on the beach was ceaseless. 

I let go of the slender thread that bound me to home, like a minotaur tearing out his own lungs, leaving them to pant hard on an oak table as he departs.  I did not, ever, look back.  All around me, seeds were popping into life, letting loose a flurry of golden feathers. 

The walking boots I wore were made from the skin of myths, netted by day in the alkaline pools near to the broken mountains.  The ringing of a wineglass marked the end of the first watch.  I went below, then. 

As I dozed on my bunk, I recalled how the old king had committed suicide, with a hockey stick, in his bathroom; and how no courtier dares to mention it more than twice.  That would be too much like fishing for underused compliments.  And that would be worse than unbearable.

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~ by londonsurrealistgroup on May 30, 2007.

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