Skip to content

Mayhap

“Out the lampoons!” cries Mayhap, and three Ivy men crowd up in the prow of the longboat, gleaming barbs levelled for use. Before them surges the great white hope: its boiling enormity is striped with scars, the salt-burned wounds of a long and deadly hunt.

“He’s mine today!” Mayhap exults. “Strike true!”

They do, and ropes thrum taut in E minor. His blood is black as ink. Rivulets of it lock the long scars together into glissandi, and the boat frets the wave tops like a pillbottle slide.

The hope is diving; the boat goes down. Mayhap drowns in metaphor.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License.