In my off-week, I bring you selected excerpts from Watchmen. Don't shoot, I am merely the messenger. All props, respect, and awe (not to mention the words) are property of Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons. DFTBA
Delirious, I saw that hell-bound ship’s black sails against the yellow indies sky, and knew again the stench of powder and men’s brains, and war. The heads nailed to its prow looked down, those with eyes; gull-eaten; salt-caked; liplessly mouthing, “No use! All’s lost!” The waves about me were scarlet, foaming, horribly warm, yet still the freighter’s hideous crew called out, “More blood! More blood!” Its tar-streaked hull rolled over me. In despair I sank beneath those foul, pink billows, offering up my wretched soul to Almighty God, His mercy and His judgement.
Waking from nightmare, I found myself upon a dismal beach-head, amongst dead men and the pieces of dead men. Bosun Ridley lay nearby. Birds were eating his thoughts and memories. Reader, take comfort from this: in hell, at least the gulls are contented. For my part, I begged that they should take my eyes, thus sparing me further horrors. Unheeded, I stood in the surf and wept, unable to bear my circumstances. Eventually, tears ceased. My misfortunes were small: I was alive, and I knew that life had no worse news to offer me.
I had a sudden memory of clinging fast to someone through the tempest. The figurehead lay at my feet, blindfolded by seaweed. Alone upon that dreadful shore, she smiled. I made to take the ribbon of kelp from off her painted eyes, then thought better of it, not wishing her to suffer the terrible distractions of that grim tideline. It was all I could do for her, though she had borne me through seas of blood, though her cold, wooden breast had nourished me in the heart of the storm. Her damp embrace had prevented me from drifting beyond reach, yet this small comfort was all I could offer; I could not love her as she had loved me.
~
The freighter’s murderous onslaught had surprised us.
We’d been blasted to fragments before we could warn Davidstown of this hell-ship’s approach. I alone survived upon my remote atoll. I thought of my family: vulnerable, unsuspecting, never dreaming that damnation bore down upon them, sails pregnant with a pirate wind, a necklace of heads about its prow. Crazed with helplessness, I cursed God and wept, wondering if He wept also. But then, what use His tears, if His help was denied me? My own sobbing had frightened the gulls. They departed, and in the terrible silence I understood the true breadth of the word “isolation.”
That night, I slept badly beneath the cold, distant stars, pondering upon the cold, distant God in whose hands the fate of Davidstown rested. Was He really there? Had He been there once, but now departed?
~
The morning sun found me no more wise, no less troubled. Further down the shore, several of the beached corpses had become inflated by gas. I set about burying the sodden carcasses, matching odd limbs as best I could with them, I buried all hope for my family’s survival. Using driftwood, I began a pit, deep and wide. I had never seen nor imagined so many dead people.
Noon came and went. By dusk, the crater was deep enough and I commenced hauling those cold, maimed, wretched things into the bed I had prepared. Dragging and cursing, I hoped my wife and daughters might be tucked in by gentler hands when their turn came. I began to weep again. Dear God, who would protect them? The freighter was almost upon them. Who would care for them, now I was gone?
Exhausted, I slept atop the grave, dreams ringing with the horribly familiar screams of children. I saw the black freighter bearing down on all I loved…
…But I was powerless to stop it.
Delirious, I saw that hell-bound ship’s black sails against the yellow indies sky, and knew again the stench of powder and men’s brains, and war. The heads nailed to its prow looked down, those with eyes; gull-eaten; salt-caked; liplessly mouthing, “No use! All’s lost!” The waves about me were scarlet, foaming, horribly warm, yet still the freighter’s hideous crew called out, “More blood! More blood!” Its tar-streaked hull rolled over me. In despair I sank beneath those foul, pink billows, offering up my wretched soul to Almighty God, His mercy and His judgement.
Waking from nightmare, I found myself upon a dismal beach-head, amongst dead men and the pieces of dead men. Bosun Ridley lay nearby. Birds were eating his thoughts and memories. Reader, take comfort from this: in hell, at least the gulls are contented. For my part, I begged that they should take my eyes, thus sparing me further horrors. Unheeded, I stood in the surf and wept, unable to bear my circumstances. Eventually, tears ceased. My misfortunes were small: I was alive, and I knew that life had no worse news to offer me.
I had a sudden memory of clinging fast to someone through the tempest. The figurehead lay at my feet, blindfolded by seaweed. Alone upon that dreadful shore, she smiled. I made to take the ribbon of kelp from off her painted eyes, then thought better of it, not wishing her to suffer the terrible distractions of that grim tideline. It was all I could do for her, though she had borne me through seas of blood, though her cold, wooden breast had nourished me in the heart of the storm. Her damp embrace had prevented me from drifting beyond reach, yet this small comfort was all I could offer; I could not love her as she had loved me.
~
The freighter’s murderous onslaught had surprised us.
We’d been blasted to fragments before we could warn Davidstown of this hell-ship’s approach. I alone survived upon my remote atoll. I thought of my family: vulnerable, unsuspecting, never dreaming that damnation bore down upon them, sails pregnant with a pirate wind, a necklace of heads about its prow. Crazed with helplessness, I cursed God and wept, wondering if He wept also. But then, what use His tears, if His help was denied me? My own sobbing had frightened the gulls. They departed, and in the terrible silence I understood the true breadth of the word “isolation.”
That night, I slept badly beneath the cold, distant stars, pondering upon the cold, distant God in whose hands the fate of Davidstown rested. Was He really there? Had He been there once, but now departed?
~
The morning sun found me no more wise, no less troubled. Further down the shore, several of the beached corpses had become inflated by gas. I set about burying the sodden carcasses, matching odd limbs as best I could with them, I buried all hope for my family’s survival. Using driftwood, I began a pit, deep and wide. I had never seen nor imagined so many dead people.
Noon came and went. By dusk, the crater was deep enough and I commenced hauling those cold, maimed, wretched things into the bed I had prepared. Dragging and cursing, I hoped my wife and daughters might be tucked in by gentler hands when their turn came. I began to weep again. Dear God, who would protect them? The freighter was almost upon them. Who would care for them, now I was gone?
Exhausted, I slept atop the grave, dreams ringing with the horribly familiar screams of children. I saw the black freighter bearing down on all I loved…
…But I was powerless to stop it.
1 comment:
cold, vivid, relentlessly prophetic. i can feel the waxy, plastic texture of the gulls beaks before they pluck into the sweet softness of the eye sockets...
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