Joshua Sloan
10/24/12
Professor Graff
Short Story
The year was 1840 as I stand on the precipice of the hull overlooking eminent death. It was not a choice of mine to board this ship, subjecting myself to the squalid conditions provided for me, but I presume that is the nature of the matter.
Swoosh!!! Splash!!! The stern is beginning to submerge in the abysmal oceans encompassing this hell I spent these last three months on. Everyone is rushing around the ship in frantic attempts to resurface this now useless peace of wood and battle the undefeatable storm; I remain where I am, accepting my fate.
Bang!!! Knock!!! The yells and commands echo around me but I am unperturbed. As I hold my ground at the front of the ship, I am confronted with mournfully wistful countenances occupying everyone’s once sanguine dispositions; this as well doesn’t perturb me. There is only one thought that is dominating my mind right now: Why? Why is everyone so fearful of what’s to come?
As the intensity of the maelstrom increases to something thought to be only fictional, or something only imaginable in a painting, the submersion becomes detectable – the incline from stern to hull is reminiscent of the incline in a giraffe’s neck as it grazes from my native safaris. The prodigious force of the storm combined with newton’s gravity, begins to jettison members of the crew from the ship. A sordid image one may say, but the slightest feelings of sympathy refuse to graze my emotions.
Crack!!! Gulp!!! The ship is being consumed by the inexorable will of the ocean. I am forced to hold on to the banister, but not for dear life, there lays something more profound in preserving my existence.
Only the hull remains surfaced, and along with it the captain and myself. I can see his paltry grip weakening as he beckons to me for help. The winds obliterate his sound waves, leaving me with only the sight of his pathetic lips imploring me for my help. Even in the tranquility of a beautiful day at sea his words would have a similar effect on me: nothing.
Gurgle!!! Help!!! As the last air bubbles escape the innards of this horrible beast struggling to stay afloat, the struggles of the captain prove to be of similar efficacy: one of my last images is of that reprehensible human being falling to his death. I can’t say I’m lucky to experience this rare scenario, but it certainly is the most gratifying experience of my life.
I am now submerged along with everything else that once occupied this ship. The ocean begins to pervade my lungs, but I don’t struggle. I accept my fate, and I accept it with triumph. On a ship designated to import slaves into a life of subjugation, I won; a slave was the last one to survive.
J.M.W. Turner, The Slave Ship (1840)
