Tristan Lee Johnson

The next day the reverent King declared:

“To prove my faith, I will build,

A temple so tall and grand that all shall know,

To my Lord first, this land is owed.”

The slaves toiled with fervorous haste,

Under the gaze of the proud King’s right hand:

His confidant; his friend; his loyal minister.

INT. KETCH - CAPTAIN'S CABIN - NIGHT 

A thunderous storm roars, rocking the ship. Clouds obstruct the moon, only a scarce amount of moonlight is let through. The ship is sporadically illuminated by flashes of lightning.

Through the window, John can be seen at the front of the ship wearing a raincoat. He holds his binoculars up to his face with one hand and holds a glass lantern with the other.

Slowly, I inch out of the bed. My muscles cry for me to stop, but I don’t listen to them.

I grab my mask. The curves and dents in the mask warp the reflection of my face. I don’t recall the last time I’ve seen myself. The distorted image obscures the hideous lesions that disfigure my face.

I shed the foreign garments in favour of the ones I know and strap the mask back onto my face. The cold steel jolts the grogginess of sleep out of me.

Have I spent more hours asleep here or at home with Abby? Rarely by the end of my shifts do I still have the energy to drive back and sleep with her. My room at the station almost becomes a second home. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be in turnout gear when Abby goes into labour. People at the hospital would probably freak thinking there’s a fire. It’d make for a pretty sick baby photo though, right? I wonder if our kid would feel proud that their dad was a firefighter.

The room is filled with cubicles, each with chairs and computers. An office? What is going on here? Flat LEDs litter the panels of the ceiling, some flicker, others unable to produce light at all. They emit a buzz that bounces off the walls and burrow through Wren’s ear canals like a swarm of microscopic cicadas. A stale odour assaults his nose from beneath him – the commercial carpet that lines the ground. The musty stench permeates the office, like the room itself is decaying.