Fractal Realities: On the Black Sea of Misery

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Arden Waithe never wanted to be on the boat. Or any boat. His experience had taught him that sailing was misery cubed. The rolling of the ground that never stopped, rising and falling, clenched his stomach inside an iron fist even as it spun his consciousness round and around, making him feel as if he were falling in every direction. Ideally, he'd spend the entirety of the trip inebriated. Drunkenness wouldn't help but enough alcohol would gift him the temporary luxury of oblivion, and shrink the travel time. Fear of being swept away, helpless, into the Atlantic stayed his hand, keeping him sober and anguished.

No, he didn't want to be on the boat and would have traded anything to avoid the whole damned journey. It was blood and responsibility that forced him to voyage despite his wishes to the contrary. With two exceptions his brothers were all dead of illness or war. He was the oldest remaining, so when his father finally fell to age, it was up to him to return to the old country to sort out the estate.


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