a bloody offense to your understanding of the world.

Through the pall of smoke on the fire-licked deck you see written upon their bodies the painted chevrons and the hands and rising suns and birds and fish of every device like the shade of old work through sizing on a canvas. You can hear above the pounding of the fight the pounding of the wardrums on the other ship, thrumming the men’s hearts to battle, and above that yet the piping of the quena (ed note: a flute made from human bones). Some amongst the enemy bear shields bedight with bits of broken mirrorglass that now cast a thousand unpieced suns against the eyes of their enemies, against your own eyes, which you shield in awesome fear.

This is a legion of horribles, dozens in number, mutilating the sailors on your ship.

They stand half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and so forth, and so on.

You flee to the aft edge of the ship, stand a-rail, prepared to leap away from the madness, and a voice cries out. “I am struck!” Turning back, you see across the flames and blood the Captain, kneeling, hands webbing the agony of his belly, trying to hold those precious tumbling pale pink worms. The man-woman stands there, holding the slick sword that has opened the Captain’s belly—watching you again, those eyes so familiar, before leaning down and whispering words to the Captain.

The Captain, acquiescing, lifts his chin high to greet the slicing blade.

As you are about to leap, the voice calls, “Don’t think you can run forever,” and you plunge into the waters below.