Botchi

He gazed out from the small portal and could just about make out the outline of the distant cliffs. It had been a great day; the sun perplexing matters with its overshine ray, the swing of the breeze compartmentalising the furrowed trough of time. To the east, a schooner rolled in from behind the chalky bank, the steam from within appearing to spiral upwards to form the wispy clouds that occasioned the atmosphere. He took a small bite from the buffet: Jamaican breadsticks.
A long time had elapsed since the fortress had been breached. Under siege for eighteen years, it had finally crumbled when the third wave of reinforced battle-hawks screamed overhead, looting the peace, replacing calm with a categorical randomness. The fallout had been treacherous, but all mentality had stabilised with the introduction of iatrogenesis. Thrice daily a warm pot of man-waste would spew forth from the gargoyle teat, in a fashion suggesting fine craftsmanship, to create a chaotic scene of wetness.

Unable to withdraw himself from the memory of the fortress long, he reached for his eye-scope and panned across the shore for movement hoping for something that would shock himself out of his tragic lethargy. No hare scrambled, no tuna in motion, he remained fixed to his wicker-banquette his lips sore from the westerly gusts. ‘Thank god the women and children were evacuated shortly before the ground assault’ he thought to himself as he tore a bite from a hunk of oxidised yeast loaf. The fortress had lost its pulsar seam: there was no stopping them.

He returned to the eye-scope and could make out the schooner skating over the outskirts of the channel towards Nine-Islands. They would be heading out to the black lagoons: the water was deep and salty there and dryfish and thurgon were becoming seasonal. The crop of 22 had been bountiful. He and his first-mate Paulos returned to the harbour that season with over eight multiple tonnage of thurgon. He remembered how they had sailed over the outer ramparts of the lagoons almost as far as the lower bays. The fishing was better in those days, before the intensive bulk vessels ridged the sands in the deeper pools with their sonic detection scoops. His life, his love, his joy. Reeling the fresh, bulky chunks of sea-life felt so real, and he smiled slightly as the imaginary fillets leaped around his mouth, partying as they so often did till dawn.

He could smell burning fish, and turned to see the fortress crumble from the south wall inwards. He could only think of his catch…the people will starve…
Never!

Next chapter…