Ebbs And Flows

• Anna Popowicz, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

Once again, I find myself setting off in my battered sailboat to seemingly new, yet hauntingly familiar seas. The water out here is continuously shifting, and the ceaseless ripples caressing its surface can easily fool newcomers. It creates the illusion that they’re traversing new territory, progressing, moving on… The sea chuckles to itself. Time and again my desire to cross these waters has been thwarted, as I’m endlessly drawn into the same perilous current.

Each journey starts out serene; the breeze is only gentle, so the sea behaves itself. With a sense of renewed confidence, I commit myself to my map and compass. They aren’t changeable like the elements surrounding me, filling my nostrils and turning me giddy… This period of tranquillity is prolonged every time I set sail, never failing to lull me into a false sense of security. Every time I think I’m in the clear, that I might’ve broken the cycle. And then the winds change.

I’m forced to chuckle at my own naivety. Tiresomely predictable, the breeze turned gale strains against my sails, forcing me to overrule the judgement of my instruments and surrender to its will. Exhilaration… nausea. The illusion of freedom is blown back into the fog, as the winds force me onto the same course as every endeavour before. There’s nothing I can do to protect myself from the choppy waters ahead, despite recognising every crest. The warning signs have lost their power to alarm me now, and instead function as landmarks towards the inevitable.

The rocks are in sight. It’s almost a relief to know that it’s nearly over… The winds pick up in strength, guiding me towards my undying Siren. I’m not angry with her anymore, despite every voyage leading me here. Frankly I don’t know if she has ever called beyond the first few endeavours, or whether it’s merely the ghost of her voice in my head that lures me back, like the everlasting ricochet of a single bullet inside my skull.

Her throne rises up before me, far higher than my small craft. Every jagged edge, every smooth face gazes on me with a tender familiarity. It’s hard to be afraid of your nightmare when it’s disguised as a dream.

Right on cue, the final atmospheric climax tears through the sails, culminating my voyage in a fateful smash…

* * *

His green eyes are gentle, yet surprisingly expressive; the same eyes that once gazed into mine with a scintillation that unmistakably declared ‘I love you’. The deep rosiness pervading his cheeks accentuates their autumnal glow, making me long for the warmth of his reassuring touch. The low tones of his voice resonate throughout my soul, their familiarity providing a comfort that no other timbre can manage.

I still yearn for the days when the heated contact of our lips overpowered the cold, controlled reasoning of our tongues. I know the unspoken boundaries, but love isn’t quite as rigid.

Instead, it prefers to come in waves…