Ocean Master #1

We are aggrieved by this assault on our vitreous, light decoding organs by this doubled image which taunts us of a fleshy, wet birth which we are sure to have never known. At least not yet.

The man sits within the womb of the kingdom he commands. His kingdom is a womb. He issues an edict to those he commands: they must flee the womb to destroy those that have left it behind many thousands of cycles ago. His issues ripple forward slowly. So slowly. Slowly through the encasing, comforting, enfolding liquid in which his kingdom resides. Some his subjects hear and act upon those. Some his subjects do not hear and do not act upon those although the unspoken issues remain a current fueling and propelling the issues which are heard and acted upon.

The man is alone in his anger, in his hatred. He has forgotten how to be. He has lost the thread of his story. Now he is only a single thread in the weft and warp of his brother's life. He cannot be happy. He cannot forgive those that have long since forgotten, or have never even known, that they have hurt him in some particular way. They would not even recognize the particulars if he carefully tried to remind them. He does not understand how they could have forgotten such a travesty of justice perpetrated upon him. He does not see how they cannot remember. No, he thinks. It is only that they will not remember.

His story can be your story as well. Pay heed as he seeks revenge. Pay close attention as he kills. And he kills. And he convinces those around him to kill still more. For in the end, he garners no reward, no happiness, no apologies, and, certainly, no affection. For in the end, he chooses the armor of loneliness which leads him to an empty, stone, dead womb. But he must now be careful, this man. For now that he is captive outside his womb, his tears will not mix secretly with his surroundings but show, stark and glinting, upon his cheeks.

The man within the stone womb.

We are intrigued by the method which thoughts are passed on, one from the other, when a populace has not the power of telepathy to share thoughts with the whole. While we think the thoughts of ourselves and others, we do not know from whence each thought comes, and thus we cannot know from where the thought originated. But this material form of passing thoughts are labeled with the names of the beings who created the thoughts. These thoughts are not shared freely. These thoughts are owned, traded, sold. But they are also capable of wracking our chest with paroxysms, leading to violent exhalations of breath which result in stark and oft-repeated cracks of sound. We are used to thoughts being ephemeral as they are needed just once for all to share. We are used to thoughts being infinite as they are kept by us all and be each of us together. But we see the potential for communications to exist outside of ourselves, for our thoughts and ideas to be placed within time, so that others that are not us may share, others that are not us may care for those things which we care for. Perhaps the limitations of separation imposed on these beings has advantages that we can make use of.

The man, once more, experiences a birth of sorts, a rebirth, another chance. He will return to his womb. He will return and he will sit and he will hide his tears from those that pretend not to notice. But he will not have learned anything from his short life in the Over World.

The man nearly speaking his unspoken issues.

The man almost goes back to the...

We. We are. Lost. Lost in. Where are we? Help. We need. Lost. We. We? Where am? Why we? We. What are we? Who am....

ocean but he remains to help a boy, a young boy, a helpless boy. A boy that, this time, will not be abandoned. At least not by this man. This man will prove better than the man and the woman that came before him. This man, no, not a man...this Atlantean will prove a thing. The thing does not matter. He must simply prove because he cannot forgive and he cannot forget. His life has become a proof to those that ceased hearing him many years ago. His life is a proof unheard. His life is a waste.

We were perplexed at this attempt at levity at the end of this story, so we worried it as a dog does a hare until it gave up its secrets in a screeching, pitiful, painful wail: "Movement is life."

Ocean Master #1 Rating: What use do we have for an arbitrary list of permanent thoughts applied to dead organic matter arranged by subjective, seemingly random qualities? Qualities that are weighted differently by every individual being as opposed to understood perfectly, reasonably, objectively by the all-encompassing totality of ourself? What do we have to offer but a number that will be disputed for reasons that merely assert individuality and personal qualities so that one being can prove themselves smarter and greater and more insightful than other beings? We do not understand the need but we shall participate in the tradition of list making. We shall give this permanent thought an 18.