Story – Letters of Measure

Lost cannon trapezes, was the instigating phrase,

Truncated Expanse

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

Fleet finds the wood and moor in a long bay. They lower boats while keeping glass on shore. Rowing men joke how they can hear treasure calling from a thicket along the slope. Not far from the ship a dense fog converges on the boats from both sides. Shore disappears in an instant along with the faces in the companion boats, murmurs of worry remain eerily clear.

“Tie Up” a voice shouts.

Ropes land in laps, slack ripples the calm. They pull in as far as the oars let them, fasten down and wait.

The men’s eyes go back and forth from one boat to another then back to their own. A broad loss of time falls upon the men, induced by the surrounding stillness, the onset sudden yet gradual.

A man in a hat jumps to his feet, salutes, “aye captain,” then dives into the water and swims without direction.

A few men begin to unbutton their shirts, intent to follow their mate assuming they missed the orders in their daze, though stop upon realizing it is only they. The rapid departure of their mate fails to set off any alarm among the small fleet, sullied by confusion. Trying to recall any detail about the day or past personal experience the men flounder with only each other to locate themselves.

The Captain sits, quietly stroking the feather in his hat. The men who tied the knots, slowly untie and retie them to their exact previous position down to the thread. Conversations between the worn grooves in the wooden oars and the hands who made them unfold with meaningful reminnisions.

Out of a dead silence the treasure’s roar hits in a gale, stripping the men of all their defenses. Some turn with terror in their hearts, others don’t dare move sure a winged lion’s jaws would find them any moment.

The captain remains steady, taking it as a sign he begins to search the waters. Before the captain can check all his quarters, a gentle knock rings out from the starboard boat, followed by the call of, “land!”

A spit of jagged rocks barely breaking the surface presents a possible path to shore. The men sobered by fresh hope, a feature to follow through the disorienting fog. Though some remain weary, as if having visited a particular day spa, unsure of how much time passed.

The Captain stands talls makes a quick gauge of his senses, feeling his gut for feedback then shouts, “make for shore, keep ground to starboard.”

Gold coins dance over each oar pull, anticipation builds in the men with treasure restored in the mind. Hardly a bead of sweat to be found when the call of “land,” comes from one of the boats. The men break from their stations and turn to look through the clearing fog at shore baking in sunshine awaiting their sea legs.

Chins raise skyward eager for a fresh smack of warmth to shake the cobwebs from their minds. One by one the men drop their gaze to confront the towering wood of their quest. Running the length of the slope the wood carries a dense foreboding stature that feels out of place with only a small grass field separating it from shore. The triumph of reaching land deflates upon confronting the glaring immensity of their task.

“And we have no other directions other than this wood on this island?”

“Uh huh.”

“Blimey, we could have double the boats and it’d still take a year to search all that, what are we to eat?”

A mate brings an oar down over the dissenter’s head at the direction of the Captain. “Anyone else like to come all this way to give up their share of the loot,” asks the Captain, giving a hard scan of his men, “anyone else?” The men fall silent. “Didn’t think so, as to how we will find the treasure, I have a plan. Make camp, the search begins tomorrow.”

By nightfall the blaze of fire extinguishes the day’s delirium; stories crackle over flames, bottles pass to the last drop. Coals glow hot, the men slouch on the silent verge of slumber, when from the belly of the wood comes a menacing roar. The sound washes over the camp like a tsunami, knocking everything off its foundation. The men gaze wide eyed into darkness, certain the end had begun. The Captain sits quietly on a log calculating the origin of the sound to set their course by light.

“At ready,” shouts the Captain, with the morning light cresting the mountain behind him.

Boots are tugged on, belts tighten, faces slapped to life till every last soul is in line before their trusted wind.

“As some of you already suspect today’s search will involve brushing bows with some deterrents, you might say. Don’t be alarmed, these traps only have the power you give them,” the Captain says, puffing his pipe ablaze.

Trekking single file through the dense wood, light struggles to reach the ground they tread.

“What did Captain mean by deterrents? Like that cannon that went off at camp last night?” one of the men toward the rear asks.

“That was no cannon doghead, that was the bloody wood,” gruffs the crewmen in front.

“How could a wood make such a…”

His voice trails off, interrupted by something in the distance. He comes to a stop, the line of men behind slink in return.

“Move it, what’s the hold up,” one says with a nudge.

The man doesn’t budge, in fact remains perfectly still. The man behind feels something is off, “What you hiding in there mate, you bring your own plank to walk?”

Over hearing this comment the last of the progress making men turns back to see what the commotion is about, and immediately regrets doing so. The skin of the crewman begins to harden into segments, roots grow from his boots, his hat rides the trunk sprouting out of his skull up to the canopy. Within a minute a pile of rags lay at the base of another tree indistinguishable from the others.

Terror grips those who witness his transformation. The man who spoke of deterrents gains insight as to what went through camp last night, the soul cries from within the trapped hollows of countless trees, each a living coffin.

The entire venture descends into chaos, a chain reaction, men running to get away vanish into full grown pines in an instant. Panic pulls the thought closer, the cautious strike an intent pace back to shore, trying not to focus on the trees.

The men gather prostrate along the tide line, hoping enough show to fill a boat. A shadow overcomes one of the men in sand, he looks up expecting to see a tree or the Captain. He peaks up toward the sea and is surprised to recognize the figure before him as the man who abandoned the boat and swam out to sea. How he stands here before him in a heavy coat of starfish and shells and a mermaid waiting on an idling seahorse just off shore was beyond him. Maybe he knew where he was going after all, or maybe he just got lucky.

The man in the sand prepares to speak, but stops as the shadowy figure raises a finger and gives the slightest shake of his head that says, no need. The other men in the sand detect a change and train their attention on their resurfaced mate. After a moment he retrieves an object from a pouch at his side then raises it to his lips while keeping it concealed in his hand. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his exhale creates a fountain of sparks from the hand at his lips, shooting high into the sky, accompanied by an exhilarating sound, putting the men in a cradle dangling over a cliff. After a good while a cloud of fizzy dust forms over the wood, when the sound stops the cloud falls over wood as though it were a pile of bricks.

A mist consumes the entire wood obscuring it from sight, within a few moments a convenient wind arrives at their backs clearing the mist to reveal thousands of sailors spanning centuries who find themselves as they were when truncated without a day gone by.

By the time the men in the sand think to thank their former mate they catch only a last glimpse of him riding away on his seahorse before becoming fully submerged.

The Captain, surprised by the sudden restoration of souls, sits patiently atop the treasure waiting for the second chaos.

The End

Oyster Jollies

By Tyler Mobley

At it again an ole used to be somebody’s sailor goes walkin between a pair of century old dampers carryin martini olive eyes, soot curls, and a dirty mouth she’d put to use if it weren’t holdin such a cute little grin. A lump of wood at bars’ end lifts a shout, “ain’t you got some business somewhere Ms.?”

The jingle of her boots fades and silence arm wrestles the room and wins. Her head snaps to a call quicker than a wave of a whip, almost drawing all the air from the room with the unanimous gasp it demands from the crowd. Silence ensued either as an effect of no soul dare speak or because a vacuum prevented sound to be carried throughout the room, nobody knew nobody cared.

Each step squashing peeps before they happen, she arrives face to face with Lumber leaned up against the bar, rising for a moment from his seat as if a flame were lit underneath his teepee.

Madam looks up, catching him with even more of a crack in her lips than before, “now what business would that be Mr. Forest?” leaning in she could smell fear turn to shit.

Log cabin falls into convulsive stutters emanating from his lower chip spreading down his race circuit. Mumbles of, “ma ma ma ma ma” again and again interrupted by sudden jerks stifling each proceeding attempt winding up like a little car about to be launched across a kitchen floor.

“Ahh hell!” she slaps him not too hard across the face breaking the broken record-ness arresting his body landing him back in his seat and before he knows much of anything he spits out, “ma acorns!”

A sigh of relief escapes from his chopstick mouth as though having needed to lose an erection before a passing train could knock it off, that sent vapor spittles into her face in a bourbon breeze.

Throwing back her head in a great “HA!”that forces anything not nailed down into the walls. Tables and chairs slide into leather breeches, glass explodes and falls in subtle applause about the room like an ensemble of fairies hitting pots and pans. Olive eyes narrow on Tinder Box with regained composure she reaches into her vest. Eyes shift around the room curious to the fact that her hand had passed up the shooter astride a rather well rounded hip.

From the vest she pulls a small bronze cylinder and removes the cap in a slow twist. Holding it before Match Stick, in a way he could note the color, which was unusual. Containing an element of glitter magnified by the truest amethyst, emitting a spectrum such that anemones if they knew they’d fight for it’s hue, lilies tell petal-tales of it’s shade, it drives monkeys bananas, and sends unicorns out shopping where they discover in passing a mirror their horns’ held the color all along.

“What they servin you here, seventh sin?” Arms a measure animated. “How bout I freshen you up?”

A gleaming nub grows under her touch, then guides the rocket stick towards Saw Dust’s face.

“Hold still now, you haven’t want me to get this wrong.” Reaching behind Splinter’s head to keep fast his shuttering chin.

We have touchdown. From a deliberate hand eights roll onto his wood chips, a trace resembling a trail of a psychedelic snail after several crossing of his balustrade, inducing a most peculiar spell. Building with each completed pass Plank’s corks pucker ever more.

In a sudden pressure release eyelids flutter his harmonica hums and steam blows out his ears. Withdrawing the wand and placing it back in her vest, she takes a step back to admire her workin play horse. Block’s head a ringing coo coo clock, his body a black and white image against the vortex drawn on his castle.

Placing a boot in his dividers then before going any further she turns to address the room, “now if any of you ladies want a ride you’re gunna have to wait your turn.” Pressing on his stirrup her legs swing over his shelve shoulders and saddle up against his music box.

For an imperceptible amount of time her business carries on in such a comfortable manner you’d think she were alone. Wedging into a joist her charged body expands a field of static potential gathered from forces present and beyond.

Breaking from her rhythm for a look at the faces frozen into the wall, some still pinned by furniture.

“Do y’all really wanna see what this pony can do?”

They weren’t sure, nobody answered. Madam twists his ear shooting a puff of steam down the bar, Jenga teetering on edge. On the well lathered face glimpsed between flickering hips patrons saw eyelids batting at thousands of rpms, a pair of bee stings blowing hard brass, a tongue zapping that could turn a toad envy green, the corrupting color covering his complexion resembled a tumbleweed turn tropical fish.

The lights in his jukebox went out right as her’s finished, both rattling in opposite ways. Leaving, months later, suspicions in those who witnessed the event as to whether his spirit had been sucked out by her receiver like some phone booth in The Matrix. Only this here is the nineteenth century so make of it what you will.

The ride met its end, she dismounts brushing against his chopping block, the force of her impact jostling a dead Stump loose from his seat who falls to kindling on the floor.

Giving herself a once over she smiles down at the Pollock piece between her thighs and runs a finger up her seam front. In passing she drags the dabbed finger across the cheek of a still giant, neither spoke.

Within moments a jackhammer awakens inside the giant inducing in him a tapping twister with rumba manners, the bright cheek streak metastasizing his body through Tasmanian whirl.

The audience fixed on another transformation hadn’t noticed her slip out, and let out a still murmur when a cow hatted and curled head popped her peach back through century old wooden doors, “Y’all be careful with this one, damn near lost my pearls,” with a yodeling chortle, “so long.”

With that patrons peeled off walls, and found themselves dumbfounded around the rutabaga vibrator they knew as Earl.