Blast Off

He was a lonely man. He did not walk; he drifted. His eyes had a vacant film over the cataractic irises, and the cinereal strands of hair on his head blew in the briny wind of the beach he frequented daily.

He lived in a cottage, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It was a dark place that rarely saw the sun, and that showed in the environment. The trees were gnarly, having been tortured by the prevailing winds. Their branches had hunched, and contorted into arcane and execrable extremities. The sky was always a sombre stain above the earth’s head. It’s colour rarely differed from iron beryl, shading the world into a bleak and dispiriting place. The skyline was a scene of gloom and depression, an alveolate land, filled with shadows.

His house was a facile building made from debilitated and rotting trees. It was as cold as its environment, and just as bereft of life- the true opposite of ‘home’. Inside, it was empty. Furniture that held no meaning filled up the damp corners, holding up the pretence of the edifice being a home. The walls were unpainted, and splattered with damp. Spiders and dust mites were the only true inhabitants.

The owner despised his house, yet he did not move. The thought had arisen in his mind several times, but he held no interest in change. He knew that he belonged in the house, that he could not survive anywhere else. So he stayed. Anyway, he had grown used to it.

It was the day the fish didn’t catch, that he had the idea. He had been sat in a miniature fishing boat, with his fishing rod struck in the water. His routine featured at least two fish a day, so when he had none; he wondered. Where had the fish gone? For over twenty years, he had baited a fish and had it for his supper. Every day for twenty years, and suddenly- nothing.

It was change, something the man had become unaccustomed to for a prolonged amount of time. It was a difference, and that shook him to the core. In his elysium, everything was constant and nothing that mattered ever changed.

But although it was contradistinct, the man revelled in it. The change rolled over him like the chilling waves of the sea. But these were waves of colour: pulsing scarlet and flowing chartreuse; warming his soul. His heart leapt in his cage of a chest, and for the first time, he smiled.

It could barely be called a ‘smile’, but it was, nonetheless.

His anima had awoken, and so had an idea. He lived on the coast of... Canada. In the west. He was next to the Great Pacific Ocean, the biggest land of water on the planet. He had the power of the earth on his side, should he take his chance.

Grasping his oars, the 49-year-old man sailed his dilapidated fishing boat until he couldn’t wait any longer. He jumped into the amaranthine waves and waded through. He stumbled onto the pearly grey sand, his aged overalls soaked from the waist down. The chill didn’t settle over his body, but warmed it more.

Pushing open the creaking door to his house didn’t feel like a hindrance any more, but a propeller on his back.

He blundered into the kitchen and fell against the driftwood counter. There it was: a glass bottle. It was one in many in the house, but this one was special. This was the one he thought of when he imagined his idea; this one was special.

Once he had the bottle in his grasp, the man felt no need to rush anymore. The colours and warmth were still coursing over his body, but he controlled his movements and stalked back, retracing his path.

Soon, he was stood back where he had before, this time, a completely different person. He had a piece of rolled-up parchment in his weathered hand, and the bottle in the other. He did what felt right, and pulled the cork out of the misty glass funnel. Kissing the page, then sliding it into the container, the man thought over his words.

He looked out at the ocean he once despised, and smiled again. This time, the cracks on his old face deepened and his eyes returned to their original blue. He laughed at the world before him, and pressed the cork into the bottle again.

Still laughing, the man then launched the life raft into the air. It shot into the water, and he felt lighter. As he had written the message, he had felt in engrave itself into his soul. It was just a small plea, but he had signed his only possession: his name, Benedict.