the ninth wave

A hot white flash fiercely torn the swelling mass into shreds, making it bleed into the moaning, screaming foam below; in agony. Like a mad mother who had lost her own and only child, the waves stampeded along the booing coast, battling the overwhelming force of the snorting, wild wind. Then crash. Spiteful, desperate, weak she bites the ignorant giants, chipping their indestructible bodies. They smile in return, flashing their dagger teeth in the strobe light of the storm. She stumbles and falls; drowning within her self then choking, spitting out rotten seaweed. Hissing.



A twisting crest rolled into a thick spiral, like a fist it flared in rebellion against the humid air, then silently rumbled into the murky depth of its infinite, hungry stomach. Open mouthed she gazed at the sullen clouds, with a passionate expression in her reflective, green eyes, foam spilling down the chin as if she had rabies. Another white flash jerked in the distance in a temporary seizure, spilling out chunks of fresh hail, like a clumsy child would spill a basket full of white pearls. The icy spears penetrated the thin layer of her bruised skin, suffocating her. She screamed in terror, covering her deformed face under the water. The sudden shock of the unexpected attack chased her around the horizon in effort to find shelter. Hopeless.



She clutched onto the debris that surround her, floating on the broken surface like bodies, disfigured, misshaped. She slips, the fragile planks struggle under her obesity, as she screams out into the deaf night, empowered by isolation. Unheard. The thorn trees scattered all over the wall of the battlefield, like endless rows of grumpy old men stare her down in disgust, completely unaware of her tragedy. Blind to her inhumane power, she drags herself towards the giants, sobbing and roaring. Laughing. Wet, sticky, gray sand bombs the rocks, like a dozen of slugs they slither, before she crashes. Again. Tearing off greater chunks of their mudstone flesh.



The stray wind cried out his lonesome song, pulling and tagging on her flowing hair: mocking her, as she stomped away- like a six year old, towards the west searching for an object that she could cheerfully use as a target of destruction. In the distance, a gray figure of an unfortunate sailor ship, rocked up and down, like a toddler in a crib, completely unaware of the potential danger. Completely vulnerable. Empty, blank like hollow caves slipping into oblivion, her eyes focused on the ghostly figure with a wicked admire. Poisonous, toxic green invaded as she gathered up the last of her pathetic self, to release it in fury on the innocent murderers of her child. A herd of smaller waves, gathered up into a monstrous master, like a boulder it slowly rolled towards the sinned souls, swallowing them in one go. Then chew. Carefully, making sure that none of them got stuck in her throat like an unpleasant fishbone, before throwing them all up.



It’s now dawn. The sheepish clouds crowded over the swirling mother, as she cuddled the shore, washing away the remains of her offspring. Some of them let the wind, cowardly drag them away from the crime scene, letting the first rays of blood red shatter against the injured surface. The winter sun melted the sky like wax, dripping flammable colours into the ocean. The surface nervous, uneasy licked the top of the broken sail, slowly burying it in its own wilderness. Few wrecked, gray bearded sailors, held onto the thick woven ropes suspended on the sail, watching the birth of a new day as if for the first time. Knowing. Knowing that this would be the last time they see the sunrise again. Knowing, that this would be the last time they fill their lungs full of the clear ocean air, and let the gentle rays of precious light bath them in warmth and joy like their mothers did when they were just little boys. They knew. And they cherished it. Final brushstroke. The picture is complete. It’s full, rich. This is Ivan Aivazovsky painting the “Ninth Wave”.