The Salt-Soaked Dreamer by Ellen Webre

Over night and in the dark, I received such
a fright, that I feel I will not sleep again.
For through my window came a gushing
of seawater, and slippery green fingers
pulled me into its depths. Down, down to
where a great ship rested in in the bowels
of the ocean, its rotting limbs as bleached as
a pile of bones. The salted sea glittered with
moonlit sparks, casting waves of shadows
over the groaning corpse. Out of the cannon
ball maw came forth a carpet of crabs, and
above them the skeletons of lords and ladies
who once gazed at the sky. They beckoned
to me, the fleshless women, still trapped in
their rusty hourglass corsets, caged forever
more. They smiled with barnacles for rouge,
crusted in brine, fish swimming between
their ribs. A strain of music twined into my
ears and the ship lit with ghost fires. Silver
turned into champagne, and the dance was
irresistible. Oh how I took those slender
bodies in my arms, and we waltzed over
prow and sails, to the beating of my own
heart, slower, slower, slower. A thousand
years passed and my hands withered, holes
showed through my stomach, the fish had
nibbled my ears right off. All my kisses and
gnawing at my ladies’ lipless mouths and
collarbones had worn out my teeth. When
I could dance no more, the lights dimmed,
and we all collapsed into the ship, and all
the gold and silver turned cold as ashes.
I awoke so soaked with sweat, I believed
myself drowned, but I have lived a thousand
years in a night. If sleep touches me again
Oh, oh! I will surely, surely die for real.

 


Ellen Webre is a youthful Californian with a labyrinth mind from years of art school. She dreams of the strange and bizarre, bringing them to life. She lurks in the dark and observes the world, for she is everywhere and all the time.