The Passing Ship

Glaciers traipse along the open waters of the sea; gazed upon in wonderment during the clear blue day, but rather something frightful during the cold black of night. Floating castles of ice, hinting at only the highest room of the tallest tower, hiding the girth of the castle below the waves. In the hours past sunset, persons aboard the mighty ship may rest their heads asleep, others may savor a game of cards or a beer with friends; gayly playing along in the vessel that sails the sea.

Crewmen work in the boilers, sweating away to keep the large boat afloat. Their unseen labor is all but expected by the high-class persons above. To such esteemed guests, these toiling labors are for the unrefined anyway. The same goes for the crew of musicians, waiters, and waitresses. They are expected to listen, fetch, and yield to every whim for water, booze, food, or want of attention.

"Oh waiter, fetch me a glass of water."

"Sir, there is a mess in the hall. Won’t you pick it up?"

The human decorations of a high societal boat.

Some insomniac guests, rather poorer in the pockets, may walk the floors nearer the boilers to calm their minds. They are unallowed the same pleasures as the esteemed ones who walk the floors up top. Still, some of them who desire to be like the most esteemed guests, they may dress and walk and act like all that, imitating the ones who have what they covet. Others, too tired to care for status and the social demand, may walk with their heads crooked to the side or the floor, waiting for the wayward trip of historic value to come to an end.

Between horizons, the ship of 2,240 persons sails along the crystalline waters, surrounded by human dreams of the many who wished they’d boarded the ship, those resentful they couldn’t snag a ticket in time, and others awaiting their chance to sail the ship of high esteem beyond its maiden voyage. The ship of dreams moves wayward with all these desires.

Somewhere in the words of a book, written by Morgan Robertson, it is said that the unsinkable ship will sink. But written word is not real life, as the real Titanic is designed to be a dream brought to life; a paradise ship carrying people who wake with hair tousled to the side, makeup that smudges when touched, clothes that have unsightly wrinkles, and shoes that have seen better days.

Each individual wakes with the intent to see the shoreline of a new day.

People, such as these two young souls whispering behind the curtains, sharing excitedly their hopes of a future beyond the waves that slap the ship. May their parents never know that higher and lower class have more in common than they would dare say. Never let them know that Cassandra is allowing Miss Evelyn to borrow a dress, walking along the higher floors as though she is of high birth, giggling along as though she has never known a day of being the daughter of parents who sleep beneath the wealthy.

They’ll write a book one day, the two of them. They’ll be pioneers in writing—remembered like Shakespeare, revered as more than two women who sailed the maiden voyage across the Atlantic.

Beneath the black, moonlit night, the two girls giggle, sharing a gently touch of the shoulder to steady themselves.

Suddenly, "Sh, shh," Cassandra says.

Miss Evelyn looks around the refined room, pausing when she too can hear the low grating through the floorboards of the unsinkable ship, her feet shaking. Silence follows the noise, and the two women share a look.

Beyond their little room, guests alike stir awake. The men flock to the main deck and find crewmen wherever possible. They all ask the same disbelieving questions.

"Are we sinking?"

"What was that?

"Is everything okay?"

Everyone is assured the ship is unsinkable and told to go back to bed.

The captain, behind glass windows, steers the ship onward, receiving word of the hit and the damage in sporadic messages, realizing more and more that the ship is taking on water and fast sinking.

Launch the fireworks. Call for help. The crewmen are sent to knock on every door and wake as many as possible. Prepare the lifeboats.

Cassandra and Evelyn receive the knock on the door, Evelyn worries about her parents, but Cassandra takes her by the arm and pulls her down the hall. They find Cassandra’s parents in the mix ahead, who scurry out to the main deck. The musicians play out a classical tune, one which Cassandra knows, but cannot name amidst the crowd of Miss Evelyn looks back to the rooms.

"My parents, I have to find them!" she cries.

Cassandra holds fast to her friend.

"It’s too dangerous!" she cries back.

Cassandra’s father takes Evelyn by the arm.

"Are they on the main floor?" he shouts.

"No! They’re lower!"

He shakes his head. "I’m sorry."

He hands her to a crewman, who hurries her into a lifeboat and hurriedly pulls a life vest over her head. Then she’s pushed into a seat beside Cassandra, who clings to her mother, who cries out for her husband, who is pushed away. Their puny lifeboat could hold more, but it lowers against the cries of the men who want to board, and the women who are too far back to get on.

They drift away in the black night, Evelyn holding herself to keep warm, shivering as the fireworks come to a stop, the music fades out, and the lights aboard the ship fizzle out. Gone. She tries to stifle her cries, but she cannot hide them from Cassandra, who mourns her father’s absence. Everyone aboard their vessel laments something left behind. Only a lantern guides them through the unsettled waters, toward a ship that heeded not the cries of the Titanic’s crew.

Behind them, the ship of dreams is lost.