The froth lifts our fishing boat's stern to a canopy of charcoal clouds, its bow dipping into a Stygian wedge.
The sails tilt into each other, the fissure between them the famished tempest's lopsided palate.
Ten little disciples, we fight for our lives.
One clings to the cedar planks fastened together with mortise pegs and tenon tendons, spewing puke into the pelagic.
Only two stay serene.
The Lord, calling to the Saxe smudge He summons
And the artist, peeking through the weft threads, the very threads in our vessel's ripped pinions, at the audience
At you
And he says,
O YE OF LITTLE FAITH
WHY DO YOU GRASP AT THE MAST
IF HE WILL NOT WAKE
LET GO OF THE LINES
KEEP YOUR BROTHER IN YOUR EMBRACE
About the Creator
Wen Xiaosheng
I'm a mad scientist - I mean, film critic and aspiring author who enjoys experimenting with multiple genres. If a vial of villains, a pinch of psychology, and a sprinkle of social commentary sound like your cup of tea, give me a shot.
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