13 comments/ 22293 views/ 7 favorites Driftwood By: Liar 1. Clinging to rocks "Are you there? Hello?" "Yes, sweetness. I'm here. I'm right here. Can't you see me?" "No. It's too dark." "It doesn't matter. I see you perfectly. That's what matters. Damn, sweet thing, you look just perfect. So elegant, so sweet, so sexy." "You're just saying that..." "Ha, like you don't know it. Like you don't love it. But as you wish, play coy, I don't care, it doesn't change a thing. I'm here, and I see every little detail. You are on display, sweetness. So come on, give a good show. You will give a good show, won't you?" "Yes. I'll do my best." "That's all I ask for. Let's get to it. You're almost all skin tonight. I like that. Let's complete the picture. The panties, you don't need them. Take them off. I want you naked, right now." "Like...this?" "Is there any other 'naked' than just that one? Perfect. You are gorgeous, sweetness. Now, don't keep me waiting. This is your show. So show me." "Show you what?" "Show me what you like. Show me how you want it." ----- At the east Skagerrak coastline, west of Sweden and south of Norway, the busy intersection between the Baltic Sea and the North Sea, the Atlantic lures in the distance, but far off enough to make this vast bay feel like a universe of it's own. Land meets the sea, not with wide stretched playas or majestic hills, but with ragged granite cliffs, ravine bedrock shores, twisted bizarre by ancient volcanic mayhem and polished agreeable by not as ancient ice ages. Gulls and ferns rule the air in a cacophony of white wings, and astute, cold darkness rules the world below the glittering surface. Here is where you don't come for cheap sangrias and bad beach pickup lines. It's where you don't work the tan or flash the pre bikini season achievements in sweat and tears from the gym. It's where you don't come home from with fuzzy memories and the STD of your choice. It's where you go when all that is said and done, and it's wearing you out. Another kind of bliss, that of quiet mornings and autumn storms, and small harbours built for both. Here is where things wash up, when the world is done with them. Things washed ashore were picked up by Trine. Sometimes. If they happened upon her small stretch of shoreline and if they glittered or were bent in curious shapes that caught her eye. Of course, she always picked up the litter, bleached shampoo bottles, beer cans, oil spill lumps, broken glass, assorted plastic junk and so on. But that's just because she loved the rock and the sea, and wanted her little patch of it clean. She threw those uninvited intruders in black plastic bags and put it on the litter ferry to mainland on Tuesdays. Boring straight planks and beams were also left to their fate. They would dry and turn to dust or dirt in their own pace anyway. She sometimes hammered in a rusty nail so that curious gulls wouldn't hurt themselves on them, but her own interests were in the more peculiar finds. Pretty little rocks polished smooth by ages of waves and sand, driftwood roots shaped like animals, faces or other things and rare objects of more human origin. Shoes, clothes, books or what's left of them after weeks in the sea, anything out of the ordinary that the waves would bring. Some driftwood is for keeps. With moss green rubber boots, army slacks and an oversized wool grey jumper, Trine blended right into the landscape. This is a landscape of distances, and she wilfully kept to herself and her patch of land as much as she could. But up close there was no escaping a distinct beauty. Her hair in salty disarray framed a face that even though it tried very hard not to, would capture a glance and make it grow into an adoring stare as sure as the rock she stood on. Her strong limbs bore the mark of youth and dedication, and her curves the full form of woman, although she made no effort to display it. Her voice was as clear as crystal and as rich as the ocean, but she used it rarely. There were not many here to speak to. But if you were lucky, and stood in the right direction, the wind might have carried a soft, melodic humming your way. Now, Trine was no pariah, just a tired soul who lived too fast, and drifted ashore here at the right time in her life to embrace the silence. She woke up one morning, where she couldn't even remember anymore, and realized that she was only years past twenty, and feeling old, run to the end of the rope, worse for wear. Too many bad calls and too much high ambition had left her bitten and bruised from a world that takes more than it gives, and to live for the next high, the next ecstasy, the next adrenaline ignited orgasm in the bed or backseat of whoever thrilled her the most, was not a cheap way to live. And now it had drained her to the point of exhaustion. When you try to burn that brightly, you never get what you give. And eventually there's nothing left to sacrifice. She left the clamour and headed for the only haven she knew, her grandfather's old summer cabin on a secluded island in the Skagerrak peninsula. He'd passed away and left her the lot a year earlier, but she had been to busy getting high on life, substances and sex to notice. He'd left her a quiet life in a tiny peninsula surrounding a small fishing harbour, a place where time had stood still for decades. A handful of vacationing families populated the island in the summer and absolute solitude reigned from September to Easter. The perfect antithesis of the fast-lane world she'd clung to since she first broke off from her over-bearing parents at sixteen. Parties with friends her father would never approve of, concerts, clubs and beer to begin with. And later, through fairytale coincidences and shameless ambition, she ascended into a metropolis high life, jet set travels and white lines in exchange for trophy sex and ever increasing debaucheries. Being young, pretty and believing there's nothing to lose makes it easy to be seduced by glamour zine ideals. There was none of that here. So Trine traded shining like a nova for shining like a candle. It was just meant as a temporary respite, a place to sit through a hangover she'd postponed since her late teens. A week, a month maybe. Her latest sugar daddy had had a standing invitation for her to his London Docklands condo, king size bed and liquor cabinet. But June turned into July, which turned into autumn and winter and another June before she gave leaving a second thought. And now she just didn't want to. Where she once collected broken hearts and heroin stained kisses, she now collected rocks and wood, where she had stared into the strobes of dance floors, she now stared into the pulse of breaking waves. She'd gradually grown to realise that there would never be enough life to experience everything, so she would always miss out. Experiencing the little things were just as valuable as experiencing the big things, and little things didn't rub her sore in the process. She missed men though. Or rather, what men could do with her body, and what they could do with her mind through her body, that otherworldly sensation that ran though her very being when intense physical pleasure clashed with the sharp thrill of breaking a lifetime of taught taboos. A loss of control and care, the balance on a knife's edge between carefree and careless. The total exposure to hungry eyes, the touching, the licking, the pulling and pushing. Hands on sweaty skin, rough meat sliding over sensation nexuses, delicious pleasure jolts from a wet tongue flicking her nipple, the intense taste of cum shot into her mouth from a jerking gland at her lips, the frantic rhythm of a determined lover, and the certain knowledge that she was at the mercy of someone else and that she couldn't possible will herself to stop until she was over the edge and another spine shaking climax has exploded from her loins. That was the one drug she couldn't get out of her system. She'd managed to sweat out the booze and the cocaine before they took over her soul completely and went from bad habit to hard addiction. Other assorted pills were just as easy to kick. Trine never even knew their name, so all she could do was throw up and hallucinate for a week until her body adjusted to the new deal. But sex, that was primal. It was a part of her body, not shit she had added to it. She told herself that she was over it, that she was beyond physical pleasure and that no good could come from looking for it. And she almost had herself convinced. Until the sun set and the night came, and she found herself tossing and turning, unable to drift off into sleep. Lonely, uneasy and restless she flipped a too warm pillow over and over and battled sticky sheets, fighting the urge to do what she knew she would eventually. With a grunt she kicked off the sheets, sat up on the bed and pulled the t-shirt she slept in, or had intended to sleep in, over her head. She leaned back on stretched arms, took a deep breath and felt the air move gently around her naked chest. A line of pale moonlight from the window was draped over the front of her panties and down along a thigh, as if indicating the direction it wanted them to go. They would. She'd be naked in the dark, she'd be wet, warm and delirious, moaning to the walls, crying for release, bucking her hips out at nothing and rubbing herself harder and harder. Soon enough she would. She closed her eyes and lay back on the mattress. The dream took over. She woke up almost every morning naked, curled up on the side with ruffled hair, sticky fingers and a sheen of sweat all over that made her shiver in the chilly November air that seeped in through window frames and floorboards during the night. The sheets and shirt lay crumbled in a pile by the bed and her panties would either hang around an ankle or be kicked off too. It was a defeat every time. Not because she had any objections about touching herself. It felt good, got the job done, and was nobody's business but her own. It made her sleep like a baby too, and the mess the morning after was a minor nuisance. She just didn't want to depend on it so fucking badly. ----- 2. Stuff from the sea Here is where things wash up, when the world is done with them. Things washed ashore were picked up by Trine. Sometimes. If they were rare and shaped like her imagination, the not very plain girl hidden in the very plain clothes and green rubber boots would take them home, polish them pretty and keep them close, in a growing collection of Stuff From The Sea. It was a simple enough name for a simple enough hobby. But it gave her walks down to the shoreline a purpose other than fresh air and the soothing sound of rolling waves. Some days she still needed a purpose to even get out of bed, and even a silly and small purpose like that one seemed to do the trick. It was a harsh day. The temperature had dropped from pleasant indian summer to nose-biting cold in just a day, and the wind had picked up pace to a brisk breeze that carried the dampness of the ocean several miles inland. Out here on the island, there was no way to escape it except warmer clothes and cranking up the heat indoors. Trine wrapped a scarf around her neck and pulled a cap over her head in addition to the usual seafront scavenging attire, and headed a familiar path toward the west side of the small island, just a little more than a rock in the water. She wondered, as always, what Stuff the sea would bring her today. She followed the path down to sea level, but stopped astonished as she came to the bedrock beach that was her favourite spot for collecting driftwood. The sea had decided to bring something it never done before. It brought a man. Or at least Trine thought it was a man, at a distance it was merely a lean figure in short, dark hair, that sat propped up against a large boulder a few feet from the waterfront. He or she looked almost casually nonchalant, one leg stretched and the other supporting a resting arm, head leaning against the stone surface watching the waves foam at the ridges from there to the horizon. The carefree pose was just a fleeting impression though, as Trine walked closer she saw that the person's clothes were soaked dark, the figure's chest was breathing heavily and the whole body shivered. The white sock at the outstretched foot had turned red at the bottom of the ankle, which in itself was twisted in what must be an uncomfortable way. He was definitely hurt. And cold. And in serious need of help. And yes it was definitely a man, his face was still turned away watching the sea, but the dark three-day shave on his cheek was a dead giveaway. He hadn't heard her coming and made no reaction as she sneaked closer. "Hallå? Vad gör du här? Behöver du hjälp?" Trine said when she was just a few feet behind him. The man's head jerked and he spun around to look at her. His wet face was pretty thin, and his eyes were dark around the edges from lost sleep. He looked pretty nice, Trine thought, beside the obvious need for soap, a shave and a comb. In his current condition, he could be anything from twenty to forty, there was really no way of telling. But what really caught her eye was the look he gave her, that of someone who'd just seen an angel. "Thank god, there are people here," he breathed and then louder. "I'm sorry. I haven't the foggiest what you just said. Do you speak English?" His accent was somehow British, but Trine couldn't quite place it. Southern...Devon, maybe? It had a bit of the vowels. She nodded to his question. "I asked if you needed help. But I guess that's obvious. What happened to your foot, is it broken?" "No, just a twisted ankle, I think," the man said with a wince. "And I cut myself on some sharp rocks getting out of the water. It looks worse than it is." "Let's hope so, because you kind of look like crap right now." He laughed, but it came out more like a tired cough. "No surprise there. No surprises there. I've been knocking about on a rubber float since yesterday morning, gulping salt water and feeling sick. I hit land by the cliffs over there and the float got stuck," he said with a nod in the direction of a set of jagged cliffs. "We've got to get you out of here, you need to warm up or you'll soon get--what's the name--" "Pneumonia?" "Right. Or you'll add pneumonia to your miseries. I'd go get more help, but for the next six months, there's nobody here but me. We'll have to manage. Got to get you inside and see to that foot. Can you stand up?" "Barely. Help me up and we'll see." Trine ducked forward and he put his arm around her shoulder. His hand took a surprisingly solid grip around her arm and she heaved him to his feet. Or foot. The injured ankle was impossible to lean on. So he leaned on Trine instead. "Yeah, this works," he said. "It stings a bit, but it works." Together they began an awkward three leg hop up towards the huddling trees where the path back to Trine's cabin lay. The man was slightly taller than her, and she curiously noted how his pale skin with a careful tan clashed with his dark brown eyes and even darker hair. A mixed bag of genes, she guessed. Either way it worked well for him. His grip and upper body felt pretty strong, in a wiry kind of way, and the lack of balance and a leg to stand on made him dig his fingers solidly into her shoulder. "Pleased to meet you, by the way," he said. "I'm Adam." "And I'm Trine. Welcome to my island." "Your very own island?" "Believe me, it sounds cooler than it is." "Just one thing," Adam said between winces of pain. "Where the hell are we?" "Norway, as south as you can get. Look two miles to the south and it's Swedish coast." "I went far on that rubber thing then. I fell off the boat that me and my mates sailed on north of Denmark. We missed a storm warning and ran into mean waves, and I was washed overboard. Thank god for a pool float that got tipped over at the same time. I'd be history otherwise." A seagull swooped down, landed on a nearby cliff and watched the two humans hopping away. It didn't give the sight much thought though. It thought of fish. Seagulls rarely think of anything but fish. ----- 3. Playing house Ten careful fingertips danced across alert skin, nerve ends waking up and singing signals of touch, humming of caress for a longing body. Fingertips slid over closed lids, parted lips, elegant curves, soft mounds and rigid knobs, smooth stretches and warm folds. She felt the slight tingles of tickled nerves when her digits passed by, and the cobweb delicacy of microscopic hairs under them when she brushed lightly by. If the shut her eyes and let her mind sink back, she couldn't quite separate the feeling of touching and being touched. They became one and the same, and she would imagine it wasn't her skin she touched and not her hands that touched her, but two lovers caressing each other, in perfect mirror sync. "That's it. Can you feel it? Tell me how it feels." "Yes. It's...it's nice." "Nice? Nice doesn't cut it. Go on, you can do so much better than nice. Don't hold back. You won't in the end anyway." "I know. I'm sorry." "Sweetness, you don't have to apologize to me. This is for you. Let yourself enjoy it. Is that so hard?" "It's just... Why can't you... help me?" "But I am, sweetness. I am." ----- "Lovely," Adam said, scanning the room. Trine groaned inwards. She'd half supported half carried the incapacitated man from the rocky shore to her cabin, a 300 metre stretch on tricky paths, through shrubbery and over cliffs. It was a stroll on the safe side of easy for any normal person, but for three working feet and one aching, it was a challenge. The narrow paths and passages were not meant for two side by side, so the short walk took its toll. The cabin was a small place, just a room with a small kitchen area at the short end and a fireplace at the other, a bed and some bookshelves and a sofa lined the walls in between. Pretty much all one person needed, but not much more. Well inside, she'd been in a carpal tunnel of concern. She'd propped up Adam in the sofa, carefully helped him remove his blood soaked shoe and sock, and was digging through drawers for whatever she could clean that ugly cut with, and something warm and dry for him to wear. That's when she remembered the empty milk cartons, old magazines, piles of paperback books, the unmade bed, the dead plant and five days of dirty laundry tossed all over the place. Underwear and balled up socks especially. She felt a blush coming on and fought to keep it back. "Oh damn, sorry about the mess. It's not like I was expecting visitors. Pretty much ever." Adam laughed. A bit strained since he was still affected by the aching ankle and the cold. "Mess? Never mind that, I've got worse at home at any given time, even WHEN I'm playing the host. No, I meant the style. I like the whole maritime driftwoody thing." "Oh. Thanks. It's mostly my grandfathers' stuff. I used to come here in the summers when I was a kid, so I've tried to keep is as close to how I remember it from back then." "But I'll bet your gramps didn't hang knickers from the ceiling beams," Adam said. And the full scale blush was an undeniable fact. Shit. Only one thing to do. Time for a change of topic. "Um--no. I guess not. Take off your clothes," she said. "What?" "Or freeze your ass off. Here," She said and tossed him a large t-shirt and an even larger sweater. "Those are big enough for two of me in them, so they shouldn't be too small for you. I'm afraid I haven't got anything in the way of pants that would fit you, but I'll go get a towel that you can wrap around your--eh--" "Arse?" "Not the word I was looking for, but yes." She picked up a towel from the drawer and gave it to Adam. "Here is one to dry you off with, I'll go get a bigger one for your 'skirt'." Driftwood Adam pulled the soaked shirt over his head and began to gingerly rub his arms and chest dry. Trine couldn't help but take in the sight. He was not exactly built, but instead lean in a pleasant kind of way, with a hint of abs and the same stubbornly strong wiriness to his arms that she had felt when she lead him from the shore. He was really cute, now that she had the chance to pause and look at him, and her eyes went from his face, to his chest and belly, and back. He didn't seem to notice, just glad to finally get dry and a little warmer. Dreamily, she watched his muscles move, his skin flex, his chest heave with breaths. Whose chest it was, was only barely relevant. It was the body of another, in front of her, within range. She felt that immediate pull, a faint urge to reach out and put her palms on those shoulders, maybe lean into him and share a little of her own warmth. Nothing more than that. Just a little touch, a little company. It had been a peaceful year, a year of rest and survival. But it had also been a lonely year. So very lonely, she thought. Just a little closeness, just someone's arms around her for a while, just a little... She was almost about to take a step towards him, when he finally looked up and met her eyes. That snapped her back into reality and she thanked her lucky star she hadn't been staring at his belly, or even lower, at the time. What the hell was she thinking? She didn't know this man, for all she knew he could be a chauvinistic prick, or a mass murderer, or a country fan. Or gay. Did he look gay? Damn it, snap out of it. You're staring again, Trine. "Yeah, right, um, all dried and cosy now?" she quipped in panic, with a Shit! Did I just say cosy? added in her head. She wanted to run away and hide, and thought he must think she's a babbling idiot. And he'd be right, she admitted to herself. If Adam thought she was an idiot, he hid it well. He just gave her a grin and pointed at his chest. "This part anyway." "Oh. Yes. Towel. Yes. Sorry. I'll be right back," Trine said and fled out into the bathroom. To call it a bathroom was generous. It was more of a plastic shed attached to the outside of the small house, You actually had to walk outside to get to it. The makeshift room contained a sink, a shower head behind a curtain and an old washing machine. But it had radiators for the winter and running water. Warm even, if you turned on the pipe heater. In the warm summers, Trine settled for cold showers though. She needed a cold shower right about then. She leaned at the sink and took a few deep breaths. This was no good. She had to get a grip. It was just--a guy, this was not the time and place to get all hot and bothered over a cute smile and a bare chest. She'd had enough of that. She didn't need men, they were part of what she'd left behind, what she'd escaped form. Focus, girl. She grabbed a suitably huge towel from a hook on the wall and went back inside. With a mixture of regret and relief she saw that Adam had put on the sweater and was towelling his still damp hair. She gave him the larger towel and headed out into the bathroom again so that he could change in privacy. From a small cabinet under the sink she picked up a bottle of medical alcohol, a bag of cotton balls and a roll of surgical tape. Living alone on an island with a bi-weekly ferry as the only link to civilization means you'll have to be ready for pretty much everything short of a comet strike. Maybe this wasn't the time and place for her to moan with pleasure, but it was definitely the time and place for him to scream with pain. It was either that, or gangrene for the poor guy. Besides, digging around in a bleeding wound ought to take her mind off sex for at least an hour or two. It did. For an hour and thirty-five minutes. It was plenty of time to clean out the cut on Adam's ankle, along with aforementioned screaming, or at least loud grunts of discomfort, patch it up and wrap a bandage around his heel, light the fireplace, call the Danish coast guard and let them and Adam's sailing buddies know that the guy who went floating about in the middle of the night had been found, get her own tired feet out of boots and into fresh socks, shuffle away the most embarrassing piles of laundry into a corner, and make sandwiches and coffee. She sank down at the end of her bed and peered over the edge of her cup of Arabica at a slim face with dark eyes, a three day shave and short, almost pitch black hair that seemed to have a will of its own. Half the face was hidden behind a mug the size of a soup bowl, and he carefully blew the steam off the black pool, eager to devour its content. He looked up at her and flashed that cute smile, the one that had made her train of thought derail and crash gloriously an hour and thirty-six minutes earlier. She felt a faint jolt in her spine, and had to hold onto her coffee extra hard not to spill it. "Thank you," Adam said out of the blue. Trine raised her eyebrows in question and he continued. "For the coffee, for the food, for the clothes and--well--let's call it a quilt for the sake of my manliness, for the hospitality, for carrying my sorry self over hills and ditches, and for sitting there right now, being a lovely end to an up until now terrible day. This morning I was vomiting salt water and clinging to a pink pool mattress in the middle of the sea, and now I'm having gourmet coffee by an open fire with a pretty girl. So yes, thank you and thank you again." There it was again. The jolt in her spine, the momentary flutter in her chest. Lovely. Pretty. It seemed to trigger a high in her that she couldn't escape from. Not that she wanted to. It was a great feeling. Company. Not just conversation and a break-off from the loneliness of recent months. Merely that would have been great. But this was also company of a man, a nice and reasonably attractive man who seemed to think the same about her. A man that she could be a woman around, give a little smile to, toss a little hair for. Be a little, if only just a little, adored by. Right, she didn't need this. She'd sworn off all those things that were bad for her. No sharp drinks, no fuzzy nights, no expensive clubs or cheap fucking at the drop of a pill. But was this it? She'd gotten off on attention in the past, to the point of spreading wide to get it. But this wasn't the same, was it? She was just being a little nice to a guest. It wasn't like she was on her knees with her head inside his skirt...quilt...towel. It was just a little harmless flirting, nothing else. This wasn't about sex. Right? Right, she decided. With the ferry two days off, Adam's boat at least as far away and her own rowboat with a strapped on outboard being too small for the weather, they were stuck together for the next 40 or so hours. Two nights and almost two days. She couldn't be an ice queen for two whole days just to cling to a principle. She returned his string of compliments with a tenacious smile and took a first sip of the coffee. With warmth, bread and hot beverage in his system, Adam started to regain a little of the colour that had drained from him over the last day. The hue of his cheeks returned, the rings around his eyes disappeared, and his expression went from lightly tormented to confident and friendly. He was looking better by the minute, something that Trine was not late to notice. While they finished their coffee and chatted away the evening hours with nonsense and non-topics, the weather and whatever, her eyes rarely left his features. And, she noticed, his eyes were fixed on her. The right kind of appreciative glance, with the right kind of peaks snuck down at her chest when he thought she wasn't looking. Men are men after all, and Trine would have been insulted if he didn't try to ogle a little. You can always count on some peeking. Unless maybe if you wear a burqa. ----- 4. Bed, breakfast and beyond Her eyes were shut, her head arched back, her face a conflicted mask of intense pleasure, concentration and frustration. Her legs were spread wide, her breasts arched up high, her hips bucking, her ass clenching, her heels digging into the mattress. Her palm ran up and down her frantic body, gliding over sweaty skin, tugging at soft hair, stopping by her nipples to pinch, pull, twist, rub in an almost violent way. Two fingers on her other hand was deep in her pussy, plunging hard in, out, in, out with a speed that looked more like a shudder than a steady fuck rhythm. Her voice was saturated with lust and urgent on the verge of tears. "Oh c-come here and touch me. Nngh...why won't you touch me?" "Because you look so fine like that. You handle yourself so beautifully. Go on sweetness, just a little while longer now." "But I want you, I want you so bad." "Baby, I'm right here." "But here, not there. On me, in me, please, I need you inside of me." "You're almost here, keep it up." "Fuck me, please fuck me!" "Next time, sweetness. Maybe next time." "Fuck me! Aaaaah!" The orgasm hit like a storm, rolled over her in wave after wave, drowning out all sound, all sight, all reason. For a minute, she was a creature of pure ecstasy, a living, breathing climax. She moaned out wordlessly into the dark emptiness until her lungs were drained, and collapsed in a curled up ball with her hands still clamped around her pussy. "Beautiful. So beautiful." Then nothing for a while. Then, "Time for me to go. Until next time, be good, Trine. Be a good girl." She could barely breathe, let alone speak, but a faint "No..." managed to slip past her lips. "No, don't leave me." But there was no reply. The whisper in the shadow was gone. Only her own voice remained. "Please don't leave me alone, please love me, please take me, please fuck me, please fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..." With that mantra repeating on her lips, she slipped away into deep and dark sleep. ----- She woke up naked, curled up on the side with ruffled hair, sticky fingers and a sheen of sweat all over that made her shiver in the chilly air. The fireplace was a few dots of powerless embers that didn't manage to keep anything warm but themselves, and the cold outside had seeped in steadily through the night. It didn't bother Trine much, crisp mornings was part of her routine, a good way to get started. It wasn't until she sat up at the edge of the bed and rubbed sleep out of her eyes that reality hit her. She was stark naked. She had, beyond reason and self control, done what she'd done many times before. Kicked off her covers, stripped down to nothing and fingered herself into an erotic frenzy. Nothing wrong with that, she did it all the time, and what a girl does by herself is her business. But that was the problem. She hadn't been by herself. Adam. The driftwood, the stranded guy, her latest Stuff From The Sea, was sleeping on the couch right in front of her. She must have masturbated...in her sleep? Unaware in dream-like half-consciousness that she had company? Totally naked...legs spread... With a guy just a few feet away. In plain sight. Oh fuck. Oh hell. Oh fucking hell. Beelzebub on a bicycle, what if he'd seen her? What if she'd made noises, unashamed, undeniable noises, panting, moaning...what if she woke him up? Did she give him a midnight show without even knowing it? Did he watch her shove her fingers straight up... Shit, this couldn't be happening! In panic, she picked up the pile that was her sheet from the floor and wrapped it around her body, before finally daring to look in the direction of the couch. Adam was sound asleep, lying on his side with the back against the room. His breath was slow and deep, but other than that he didn't move a muscle. So he sure as sunshine didn't see her in the buff right now, at least. And maybe, just maybe, he'd slept through the whole thing. She quietly moved over to a drawer and took out a clean top and panties, put them on with some effort under the sheet, and wore the pair of sweatpants she'd hung over the end of the bed when she went to sleep. Then she snuck outside to collect her thoughts. The chilly wind splashed her in the face like a sharp, fresh caffeine overdose. It was a never failing method to wake up, and all the mental cobwebs of sleep were blown away. The mean little spider of possible disaster was, however, not. She considered her options, and realized that she had pretty much none. Short of throwing herself to he waves, all she could do was pretend like nothing happened, go about her business and wait the day out, praying to whatever deity that cared that Adam had been in too deep a coma to notice. He was pretty exhausted after all. Yeah, that's it, he probably didn't see anything. Maybe. Pleasejesusmakeitso... "Good morning, love." Trine spun around. There he stood in the door behind her, looking wonderful. Unshaved, a little morning weary and with a hair that had given up on looking proper long ago, but that smile, those eyes, a neck that looked perfect for nuzzling up against... and a very undressed body beneath it. A bare, tanned chest, and only a towel that hung loosely around his waist and was held up by hand. His tall figure leaned against the doorpost and smiled at her. Smiled. The same smile as yesterday, as far as Trine could tell. What was it again? Oh yes, act normal. "God, you scared me. Wait, did you just call me love? Are we that kind of friendly now?" He laughed. "It's just a tag. My mum calls me that for goodness.... Is miss better? How about ma'am? Does ma'am work for you?" The ma'am came out with such a fake Texan drawl that Trine couldn't help but laugh. "No way! Ma'am makes me feel like I should wear an apron, three layers of skirts and have hips like a rhino." "I say, if I knew being properly polite was this difficult..." Polite would be to not walk around naked in my house, Trine thought. But she let that pass. She was not sure what she'd do if he replied "But you didn't seem to mind nudity last night." She'd probably die on the spot. And, she had to admit, he was a sight that she most definitely enjoyed, and he did cover up all the no-no bits. "I've got a name, you know," she said. "We're not big on titles in this corner of the world." "Ok then. Trine, can I please use the shower? I've got salt everywhere and a plankton zoo in places I don't want to talk about." "Oh. Of course. Wait here." She brushed past him in the door. For a moment, her whole vision was filled with his torso, her hand rested lightly on his chest, her arm brushed against his side, the smell of salt and sweat filled her nostrils... It was just half a second, but that was enough to make her heart pound, and her balance played tricks on her as she went inside. Cursing her inability to focus, she staggered into the room and found an extension cord hanging on a hook, She plugged it into the wall socket and went outside where she handed the other end to Adam. "Here. It's for the--um--water. Plug it in to the thing by the sink and give it a minute, then it should be warm enough." "The 'thing by the sink'? I love it when you get all technical on me." "Oh, you know what I mean. I don't know the English word for it, ok? Just shove it in and enjoy the heat." She started to blush even as she said it. Quickly, she fled inside and left Adam standing by the door, holding a dangling power plug and looking more than a little amused. Amusement was not a feeling on Trine's mind though. One part of her was worried sick that he knew everything and that his behaviour was just as much an acting-normal charade as hers, and that the big, terrible joke was on her. Another part kept on ranting "There's a naked man in my shower, there's a naked man in my shower. There's. A. Naked. Man. In. My. Shower!" A third, much smaller part said "Yes, there's a naked man in my shower. A hot naked man. Wet, probably soaped up nice and slippery. I hope he saw me naked and is jerking off to the memory right now. Why don't I strip and join him?", but the other two parts kept telling it to shut up. A fourth part looked at the other three parts and shook it's proverbial head. "I'm an idiot," it said. "Just start with the damn breakfast already." ----- 5. Wresting an hourglass She awoke with a blink, a shudder, sometimes a shout. The world spun, she felt drained, paralyzed. Was she there or just dreaming that she woke up? What was the difference? Did it matter? The room was pitch black, save for a faint patch of moonlight that had moved from her thigh to the wall. The whisper was not there, and the hum of satisfaction from pleasuring herself long gone. A sinking, empty feeling of loneliness had taken its place. A vacuum to fill the vacuum? How ironic, she thought. Deep, cold dreams tugged her back before she could think anything else. ----- The rest of Trine's day was crossfire of doubt, fear, what-ifs and a constant struggle to keep her blooming lust under wraps. The four way debate in her head kept bouncing illogic arguments, wild guesses and slippery slopes at the walls of her skull. And that was pretty much all the voices could do, because Adam didn't reveal whether he knew her dirty little secret or not with as much as a wink or a waver on his voice. Not that that made Trine any more confident. Because he had changed. He was pleasant and charming as before, but with a new glimpse of interest in his voice. He was leaning a little closer, his eyes lingering a little longer, a little more compliments and innocent flirting weaved into what he said. And more of those heart-stopping smiles that simply couldn't be healthy in too large doses. But that could mean anything, really. He was a guy and she was a girl who seemed to be having that effect on males now and then, so it could be the little head pulling him along even without her accidental nocturnal inspiration. Whatever caused it, it didn't help her keep her head cool. There were, on any given day, chores to be done and routines to follow. The fireplace didn't light itself, especially without chopped wood, there was laundry to do, groceries to order out with tomorrow's ferry, a well to check, a small patch of vegetables to weed out... Stuff that didn't nearly fill her day normally, but that took twice the time now, since Adam, foot healed enough to walk around, insisted on doing his share and helping her with everything. So he tagged along like a puppy, and although he dug in ambitiously, Trine - who was the one supposed to know where things went and how they worked - was so distracted by his presence that she fumbled like a clown, forgot the most basic things and generally made an ass of herself. Ferns hovered up ahead, swept back and forth in the grey sky, opening their beaks in gleeful yapping over her embarrassment. Or not really, but when she managed to ungracefully trip over her own feet right in front of Adam, and heard a spiteful "Hya-hya-hya-hya-hya!" From above, she wanted to grab a shotgun and blow the stupid bird's tail feathers into confetti. The gnawing uncertainty in her pit of Trine's stomach about last night's grand show was one thing. It was what it was, which wasn't cheerful, but there was nothing she could do to affect it. But the man himself, that was something else. When he touched her, when he breathed in her direction, when he said something appreciative about her or when he smiled that god damn smile, she went putty like an adoring teenager. When she did, she had to drop whatever she had at hand, tense up her body not to stagger and focus hard on breathing not to show her excitement. "Get it together, silly girl," she told herself. "Just stay cool for a little longer, and he'll be on a ferry and your life can return to normal." "Or I could just jump his bones and get it over with," she small and horny pixie in the back of her head said. "End of problem. I know I wanna." Driftwood "Shut. The fuck. UpI" "I'm just sayin'." "Well, don't!" To add to the distress, Adam's timing was impeccable. He managed to cause little eruptions of lustful tingles and fluttering nerves just at the very moments when she thought she'd start to gain control of herself and function like a regular person. She could actually suppress the weirdness of her situation and imagine that she was on top of things for five minutes now and then. Then a pair of dark eyes would stare at her so intently it burned, a strong hand would land conspicuously on her wrist, or lips in a wonderful smile would utter just the right words to make her legs tremble. Nothing wanton or even semantically sexual, just the right kind of syllables that sounded gorgeous together. It wasn't by design, it couldn't be, he couldn't possibly know all about the turmoil inside of her, and exactly the things that pushed her buttons... could he? She wasn't even sure if he was trying to turn her on, or if all of this was just her reaction to a year starved of physical and social attention. Maybe she was just one big button, and anything that stumbled close enough could trigger it. Trine could just be happy Adam's pants had dried up well after breakfast already, so he didn't walk around a towel-snatch away from full frontal goodness. She would have been a nervous wreck. Or ok, more of a nervous wreck than she already was. The constant lack of emotional balance kept her mind busy though, and somehow it was easier to struggle with the impracticalities of infatuation than with the bizarre uncertainties of the night before. It wasn't until they were dozing off after dinner, the low sun was casting a red glow outside through a rare opening in the clouds, and the glowing wood of the fireplace was bringing a red tint to their faces, that the real horror hit her like a bucket of icy water. Icy water full of piranhas. Yes, the trials were far from over. The real battle was still ahead of her. Bedtime was a looming, dark cloud on the horizon. The very word filled her with dread. She just couldn't allow herself to sleep. What if she went all x-rated again? There was no way she was going to risk that, whether Adam was unaware or anticipating a sequel. But neither could she find any believable reason for staying up all night. So she played merrily along. She made her bed, brushed her teeth, found sheets and blankets for Adam's couch, slipped into bed, said goodnight and turned off the light. She turned against the wall...and pretended to fall asleep, straining her ears to hear if Adam was sleeping. After maybe fifteen minutes of excruciating silence, she turned slowly in bed, and looked at him. To her relief, he was turned towards the room, and she looked into a face with closed eyes and totally relaxed features. Either he was a quality actor, or he was truly asleep. She coughed faintly. No reaction. She sat up in bed. Not the slightest stir. A little more confident now, Trine stood up and sneaked across the room, carefully avoiding the creakiest floorboards. She picked up a pair or extra socks, her warmest woolly jumper, and a long jacket by the door, grabbed her rubber boots, a big, knitted cap, and carefully opened the door. Cold air rushed in, and she snuck out as fast as she could and closed the door behind her. Once outside, in nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt, the bite of the night hit her with full force. She quickly assembled the clothes she'd taken with her, and also added her baggy army pants that hung dried in the shower shed. Now she was fully prepared to last hours out in the open. At least physically. The problem wasn't her body though. It was her brain. It had been running on triple speed all day, feeding on worry and wanton in equal amounts, sprinkled with confusion and anger at herself for allowing this loss of control. It couldn't take much more, and was in aching need to just shut down and re-boot. After all the commotion of the day, boredom was something it just didn't know how to handle. And there was absolutely nothing to do. Not a damn thing but wait. The sky was heavy with clouds and the only source of light within miles was the faint glow of the fireplace inside. If she got up and walked more than ten steps, she'd lose her bearings. She sat down on a small wooden bench by the door and stared out into the darkness. She cursed to herself for not bringing a flashlight, but it was too late now. The wind slapped her softly in the face and she heard waves roar in the distance, but even this became a monotonous, irrelevant hum after a while. Her only point of reference was a wrist watch with a backlight lcd panel, which she now and then checked for progress. But when she thought she'd shown god-like patience and surely must have wasted an hour or two, the digital arms had ticked on ten minutes. Trine groaned and stifled a yawn. This was going to suck. Two hours later, she was close to tears. It was like having a stare-down with an hourglass, shaming it to stop dropping grains. Her consciousness was the ever diminishing cone at the top, being relentlessly drained. Sleep was more than a mere seductive suggestion now, it was a physical pull that tugged at her brain with random intervals, and she had to shake her head and breathe deeply to keep paying attention to her sensory input. But of course it was a fight made for losing, and after only a few more minutes, Trine's head dropped forward and her body sagged in a sleep that not even the sharp winds could wake her from. She dreamed of a towel. That towel. It was not wrapped around a lean man's waist, but spread out in the sand on a wide stretched, sunny beach. She was spread out on the towel. Naked, relaxed and warm under a tropical sun. And although there were people there, a handful in shorts and bikinis, a few fully dressed, at various spots along the beach, she didn't care enough to cover up, but only felt mildly annoyed that she'd forgotten to put on clothes that morning. She stood up without any embarrassment and strolled aimlessly through the sand. Sleeping and balance are not bedmates, and having given in to the former, there was none of the latter to keep her upright on the bench. With a soft thud, she tipped over and fell to the ground. Not even that woke her up. Behind the veil of dreams, her body registered the impact and the light pain, but folded it neatly and plausibly into the scenery. In her dream, she had for no apparent reason, walked into the side of a suddenly materialized cherry coloured Toyota mini-van. On the beach. As if that was the most normal thing in the world. She apologized to the upset automobile but it kept honking angrily and roared its engine at her. Suddenly scared, she backed away. The brain is a wondrous thing, so critical of senses when awake, so eager for non-sequitur explanations when we sleep. Creaking hinges found no place in her current dream though, so they shook her out of the depths, away from the beach and the threatening car, into a light and blurry slumber, the no mans land between awake and asleep that is heaven on a lazy Sunday morning, when dream and day-dream are one and the same. A worrying coldness and a mildly hurting shoulder intruded on her peace though. She was vaguely aware of someone talking softly, of arms pulling her up, cradling and lifting her, hands pulling her towards a lean chest under a shirt that smelled of soap and man, and she moved without thinking, threw her arms around her rescuer's neck and snuggled her face up against his shoulder. Who the arms belonged to, she had no idea, and neither did she ask the question. In her state, only the most basic things mattered. They were Arms, she was being Held, it felt Safe. She was carried a few steps, there was the creaking again, and the chill melted away. She was carefully lowered and her heavy outdoor clothes removed. She obediently held up her arms to have the jumper pulled off and held out her legs so her boots and pants could come off, just like she'd done when she was a little girl. She was tipped back from where she sat into a soft mattress, a blanket with a familiar smell was tucked around her and she felt a pillow shaping itself after her head. She squirmed happily in place and felt the soft fabric embrace her. Somebody kissed her lightly on the forehead and walked away with quiet steps. With a sense of being Home and that all was Good in the world, Trine slept. ----- 5. Stuff of dreams "Hello? Are you there?" "Of course, sweetness. I always am. Where else would I be?" "Yes, you always are. But who are you?" "Why do you ask?" came the reply out of the shadow. "I... I don't know." "Then you shouldn't. No matter, I see you're as ready as ever. Remove your clothes and let me see you." The last of the sheet slid down to a pile on the floor, and her hands moved as if on puppet strings to her t-shirt, tugging it up, tearing it off. Her pants and panties were yanked down and kicked off in a hurry, now dangling inside out, stuck at her feet. She didn't care. She threw herself back on the mattress, stark naked, and stared at the ceiling. "This can't go like it used to. I need a change," she announced to the darkness. "A change, sweetness? What change?" "This time...you must touch me." "But why? You're doing so splendidly on your own." "I am? I don't feel like I do. All I feel is alone and unwanted. Is that what you want? It's dark and cold and you don't want me. Not really. Is that how it should be?" "Sweetness, that's not you, that's just a state of mind. It can be overcome. Don't you enjoy our times together? You sure seem to love what I do to you.." "But you don't do anything! I lie here and beg...and you just hide over there.." "I don't hide. I watch. I'm here for you, am I not?" "Shut up! No excuses, no tricks. I'm tired of this. You take me for real, or you go away! Come here and put your hands on me! I need you on me, around me, inside of me, right fucking now!" Her shout died away. There was silence. Dead and utter silence. She thought the whisper might have actually left her, but then came a soft reply. "Trine, you know I can't. I'm not really here." But somebody was. Somebody was touching her. A hand laid on her shoulder, gently moving down her arm, she could feel the fingers, the palm, the wonderful sensory sparkle of lean caress shooting up from nerve ends and blooming in her brain. But the room was empty. She saw no hand. ----- She saw no hand. Then she saw a ghostly outline, a double exposure, the idea of a hand. She saw a hand, an arm, a man, as the room in her dream caught up with the room her eyes registered. With a final gasp, she broke through the surface from real-like dream to dream-like reality. It was the same room, the same shapes and angles. But the darkness in the corners were much less tangible, there was rustling of wind outside, and an orange light from the fireplace. There was Trine, naked, exposed down to the soft trousers stuck inside-out at her ankles, breath trembling, hair spread out like a tangled halo around her head, big eyes staring in confused wonder at the hand stroking her bare arm. And there was Adam, kneeling by the bed, his eyes shifting in silent amazement between where his hand met her skin, up at her face, and down along her exposed body, glowing red in the ember light. Thoughts erupted for milliseconds in Trine's head, collided with other thoughts and died down. She tried to speak, but found that she had no idea what to say, or which body parts were used for talking. She tried to move, but couldn't quite reach out to her limbs and let them know. The sensation of his touch was a roaring rush of pleasure, with a side order of panic. The sensation of his gaze on her breasts, belly, legs, labia, almost felt like a physical presence. The realization that she was beyond any hope of keeping her personal sphere to herself, that she was truly opened and exposed in every sense of the word, became the rope that tied her motionless, she simply had no idea how to react, where to go from there. She didn't even know if she wanted to go anywhere. She felt her body bathe in the attention, she felt her flesh swoon, her nipples and pussy tingle as if already caressed, her mouth water with the prospect of kissing, licking, sucking, tasting the man by her side. And at the same time, her spine trickled cold with terror. She wanted to run and hide, she wanted to grab and kiss, she wanted to kick and scream, she wanted to laugh and sing. All at once, and succeeding with nothing. Instead it was Adam that took action. He continued to stroke her arm, up to her neck, over her shoulder, down to her fingertips and back up, while he spoke in a hushed voice. "I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed of the beautiful girl who saved me from a storm and invited me to her house. I dreamed she was...naked, with her hands between her legs. She was...touching herself, panting, moaning, and murmuring things I couldn't hear. Not until the very end, when she told me to touch her, to take her, to...well...fuck her, was the word she used. But I didn't. I didn't dare to move. I was sure that as soon as I did, I'd wake up, and it was just a too amazing dream to lose. But I guess I was wrong. It seems it wasn't a dream after all?" Not really in control of her voice, but realizing that there was no point in denying it, Trine shook her head. Adam ceased the stroking and looked into her eyes. He smiled. Oh god, he smiled, and Trine knew she was done resisting. She wouldn't crow away, wouldn't hesitate. If he wanted her, she would be his. This would go where it went, and it was out of her hands. As soon as that thought had settled, nothing else mattered. There was no embarrassment, no feeling of intrusion, no fear of anything. "I've been a wreck all day," Adam continued. "I looked at you and all I could think about was those images. I tried like crazy to figure you out, to find a sign that you were that woman from my dream, that it could possibly be real. But you've messed me up more than any girl ever before. Everything about you is so lovely. From your sweet laughter to your big heart to your funny rock collection. And I know this sound like a Big Dumb Male thing, but I stand by it: I could hardly tear my eyes away from your body. You make my knees shake. I couldn't think straight around you." Trine stared. She made his knees shake? He couldn't think straight around her? Oh boy, if only he knew. She'd tell him, she made a mental note that she'd tell him of her ordeals. Maybe they could compare notes? But not now. It was too long a story for too short a night. "So...have you figured me out now?" she simply said, amazed of how easy it was to speak all of a sudden. Adam blinked, then a smile spread across his face. "I think I just might have." Not quite, Trine thought. But close enough. "Then what are you waiting for?" she said, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her for a long, sincere kiss. The tip of her tongue touched his, and the aching need for sleep that betrayed her in the first place became a moot point. She was suddenly not the least bit weary. It was an exquisite feeling, the shape of a body over her, the feel of muscles flexing against her, like a long lost love coming home. She held on tight and tugged Adam closer and closer, while sucking on his tongue, pressing her lips hard against his. He lost his support and fell down upon her with full weight, his torso pushing down at her breasts, mauling her shape into the mattress. She let out a short grunt, which seemed to worry Adam, who broke the kiss and tried to speak. He didn't get very far though, before Trine tightened her grip around his neck and plunged her tongue into his mouth again. Her whole body spoke to him in pleasurable groans and content squirms when her lips were busy. "I'm okay," she wanted to say. "Go on, don't hesitate. Don't be afraid, I won't break." Her picture of Adam as careful and nervous was soon put to shame though. He bore down on her with springy enthusiasm, licked at her lips and tasted her tongue just as fiercely as she did, matched her firm grip around her neck by slipping his hands around her naked body and closing in in a tight embrace under her back. She felt his hands pressing into her where she lay, his arms wrapped close and the fabric of his t-shirt rubbing against her nipples. But that was all. He was still sitting on the ground, and as much as Trine swooned in the delight of a kiss long, long overdue and at the blooming wonder of sexual attention, she began to feel the itch from below. Small shivers of pleasure pulsed from within her pussy, letting her know that it was feeling left out. Damn greedy thing, Trine thought. That was soon to be taken care of though. Holding her tight, Adam leaned backwards and sat her up in bed, he tore his mouth away from hers and ended a kiss that seemed to have gone n for hours, leaving little black dots dancing in front of Trine's eyes. He stood up and she meekly followed, still clinging to his neck and licking salt from the windy day off his cheeks and leaving little butterfly kisses all over his face. Upright, she disengaged and leaned back a little, taking a tiny step back. She was so close to him that she could feel small hairs on her forearm brush against him, and her nipples still trailed softly against the cotton fabric covering Adam. She looked up into his eyes. Dark, gentle, loving, but hungry on an epic scale at the same time. And with a glimmer, a knowing little shine of playfulness. His hands slid down her back to her buttocks, and he squeezed them, resting the tip of a finger between the round cheeks. They just stood there for almost a minute, looking into each others' eyes trading smiles and quite little giggles, a whole conversation of signals not represented by any words in a human tongue. Just lust drunk giddy moods in anticipation of what was yet to come. When Trine finally made a move, it was with the precision and force of a cruise missile. She knew what she wanted now. More than anything to get beyond any last barrier of privacy. As fast as possible. She had noticed the bulge in his pants, it almost reached out to where she stood, and she had made up her mind right then. This was going all the way, and right now. Before Adam had time to react, she had dropped to her knees with a wooden thump from the floorboards, and pulled his pants and shorts down with her to a pile by his ankles. His cock sprung out and hit her on the nose, and with a joyful laugh she gripped she shaft, pulled back the foreskin and gave the tip of the gland a long, wet lick. The musky taste spread like wildfire in her mouth, another thing she didn't even remember how much she'd missed. And it had been one of her favourite pastimes. Not for her pleasure, but as the prefect way to make a guy worship her if she did it right. And she always did it right. She had thrived on worship once, sipped adoration like another drug, and every way of getting there was tuned to perfection. But it was different this time. She didn't have to, there was no way for this man to adore her any more without bursting his heart. Usually, this was a commodity for barter, but there was nothing Adam could give her that she knew in her heart she wouldn't get anyway. This time, she gave pleasure merely for the sheer joy or giving. She had to take a second to digest the thought. There really was no other motive. Just pure and giddy happiness from knowing what pleasure her actions gave this man. She took another lick and ended it with a small but strong sucking kiss right over the little slit. She was rewarded with a drawn out groan from above, and responded by smiling up at him and tugging at the shaft with her hand. She heard a soft rustle behind her. Adam had pulled off his shirt, and was now as naked from the ankles and up as she was. There, now we're even, she thought. As if that would matter anymore. Suddenly the whole silly situation caught up with her, and she couldn't help but laughing a little. Driftwood "Found something funny down there, love?" Adam asked. She squeezed his cock. "I'll tell you later." After that, she didn't say much for a long while. At first, her lips wrapped around Adam's rigid meat made it impossible to speak, and most of the night she was just as short for words, either too lost in erotic high to access the right pathways in her brain, or too breathless to manage anything but wheezing in between climaxes and starting over. However Trine tried, she could never recall the chain of events that night. She had a puzzle with most pieces loud and clear, but no way of piecing them together. The rough feel of the wooden floor against her back when pinned down and fucked breathless, legs in the air, stretched out pussy on fire lungs empty of moans. Adams drawn out moan in her ear when she rode him, sitting up on the edge of the bed. Adams muffled laugh when she smothered him with the mound of her breasts. The sensational taste of his kiss after he licked their combined juices out of her. How he pulled out of her mouth when he was reaching his first climax, and how she dug her nails into his buttocks and pushed him deeper into her throat instead. The clinging of the cutlery in the drawers when she held on to the kitchen bench and got fucked hard and deep from behind. An amazing warm, slippery shower in the total night darkness of the bathroom shed, while the hard breeze rattled the walls. Adam gently kissing her sweaty forehead while he squeezed her clit and pushed the tip of a finger into her anus. Adam biting down gently on her nipple, sending her on a trajectory of pain and pleasure into one of many shuddering orgasms. Adam doing this, Adam doing that, and just, simply, Adam. The sight, the smell, the taste, the feeling of him on and in her in so many different ways it made her mind swirl. She also had a clear memory of them both lying in a pile on the floor and laughing until they both cried, although she couldn't ever remember what they laughed about. And curling up in her bed and talking softly, but not what they said to each other. Sleep came, eventually, at the break of dawn, when light started seeping in from windows and the last embers in the fireplace gave up the ghost. It was long into the afternoon when they woke up. The ferry had already been there, unloaded a crate of groceries on the jetty and left. The next boat off the island would be a certain British flagged sail missing a shipmate. Another two days and two nights ahead, since they'd sailed to the nearest town and done so much bar hopping in celebration of the good news of Adam's rescue, that one of them was still sleeping it off in a drunk cell. Trine pointed this out over fresh muffins that came with the shipping, lying naked in Adams's equally naked lap, and picking muffin crumbles out of her belly button. Adam took a sip from his tea and looked down at her. "Does it really look like I have a train to catch?" he said with a wink. "What's out there for me? Some piss silly holiday with overgrown teens? I mean, I like the little buggers, but...that? When I can have this? And then what? Deadlines biting each other's tails on a crap job with a crap boss and a tie noose around my neck. The only thing I'd miss if I lived the rest of my life right on this rock is proper brew. Be a darling and order out a keg of Stella next time and I'm yours forever. And some proper tea, I don't know how you can survive on this mud long term." Trine shot him a raised eyebrow and he looked down on her with an apologetic look. "Yes, I'm a bloody cliché. Sorry." It didn't stop him from taking regular sips of his on the "mud" though, sighing happily with every mouthful. She flipped a piece of muffin up at him and purred, finally missing nothing in her life. Not a single thing. ----- 6. Driftwood "Are you there? Hello?" The room was silent. Nobody whispered from the shadows. It was as it should. She didn't have to rely on bodiless commands in the night to fill her body with the sensations she craved. Not anymore. And the shadows weren't as dark as they used to be. They were just part of the room now, familiar walls in the late hours. They wouldn't suck the joy out of every climax, and leave her with only a cold, damp nothing. She fell back into the rhythm of her breathing, and sank with each exhale into a warm, welcoming rest. ----- Here is where things wash up, when the world is done with them. Things washed ashore were picked up by Trine. Sometimes. If they were rare and shaped like her imagination. She would take them home, polish them pretty and keep them close, in her growing collection of Stuff From The Sea. She woke up naked, warm and comfy under thick sheets, but the tip of her nose was cold from the autumn seeping in and the glow-less fireplace. A warm breath trickled over her neck and a body behind her rubbed lazily against her back as they both breathed. She pushed her bottom back and ground it into the crotch behind her. Adam's resting cock fit snugly between her buttocks, and she clenched them to squeeze it. A groan emerged from behind her. "Good morning, baby," Adam said and snuck a free hand around her waist and up to cup a breast. He gently rubbed her nipple, and she sighed with delight. Adam was no bad bed partner at nights, but he totally ruled at the morning after cuddle. "Do you have to call me that?" she asked with a feigned whine. "What?" "Baby. Way too much American sitcom...ish. It creeps me out." He chuckled. "If you say so. But what, pray tell, do you want me to call you? We've already ruled out ma'am, and I'd never do this with a ma'am anyway... I guess it's up to you. What will it be?" She fell silent for a moment. What? Yes, there was only one thing. "Sweetness, " she declared. "Call me sweetness." "Sweetness? And you thought baby sounded bad? Jeez." "I like it. So sue me. It's sweetness or nothing." "Fair enough, if it makes you happy." "Yes, I think it does." He kissed the back of her neck, inhaled the scent of her hair and pulled her body tight to his. "So, sweetness, what do you want to do today?" She smiled to herself and held on to his arm. Some driftwood is for keeps. Driftwood Harry listened to his tires squeal as he made the long, sharp right turn down the ramp and onto the street below. As he completed the turn and merged onto the street he immediately noticed the bare slab where he remembered the cheap hotel used to be. He remembered watching the line of people move back and forth across the street between the cheap hotel and the bright and glitzy casino and wondered just how much money they saved spending the day at the casino and then sleeping in the cheap hotel. The light turned green and Harry drove ahead about fifty feet and then turned into the parking garage to the casino. Heading up the ramp he continued up until he got to about the fifth floor before pulling out and looking for a parking spot. Sure enough he found one reasonably close to the elevators. After locking his car he walked slowly to the elevators and rode down to the casino level. As the doors opened he immediately noticed several costumed people walking out of the elevator lobby. "Oh damn, it's Halloween," he mumbled to himself. "Well I guess I'm just dressed as a businessman," he continued as he stepped out of the elevator and walked through the elevator lobby. Stepping into the long walkway leading to the gaming area he looked around surprised at all the changes. He had heard that the remodeling and repair of the storm damage had been extensive, but while the casino still maintained its familiar charm, it was completely different from what he remembered. After passing a number of boutiques, upscale coffee shops and a pinball game room, he walked over to a long bank of clerks to check in. All the clerks were in costume and he laughed to himself as some clown handed him the pen and the registration form. It took about fifteen minutes, but he finally got his room key. He headed up to his room to drop off his luggage. He considered changing into something a bit nicer than his traveling clothes, but instead he just slipped the key in his coat pocket, carefully slid his wedding band off his finger and headed to the elevator. Once downstairs he found himself surrounded by hoards of witches, mummys, soldiers, policement and other people in odd costumes. Before heading into the gaming area he slipped over to the buffet for dinner, because, not only was it Halloween, it was Friday and at the Casino, Friday night meant prime rib and king crab legs. Although Harry visited the buffet several times, he made sure he didn't overdo it. He could have eaten more, but now turned his attention to the gaming area. The bright flashing lights and intoxicating din of dinging slot machines, countless voices and hints of music immediately welcomed him into a different world. The gaming area was always hectic, but today it was over the top. Besides the flashing lights, loud dinging and music and general din of conversation, the large room was full of clowns, nurses, cowboys, apes and hundreds of other costumed people. Change was provided in Halloween buckets covered with jack-o-lanterns or witches and graveyards. It was still early in the evening, so he was able to walk to the bar and sit down at one of the video poker machines. He slid in his play card and then fed a five dollar bill into the machine and watched the cards flip up before him. He picked two cards to hold and hit the button, then watched as three cards appeared. Ordering a drink he hit the button again and then looked around at the others sitting at the bar. After several drinks and a few dozen hands of video poker he began looking over the others there at the bar, trying to sum up who was there around him. The mummy and Frankenstein sat directly across from him, both appeared to be serious about their gambling, feeding quarter after quarter into the machine. Tarzan and Jane, obviously a couple were next to the monsters. To Harry's left was someone who looked like Morticia Adams from the old TV show and General Patton was to his immediate right. "You know, it's just not the same," the attractive woman, dressed as Morticia said. "Excuse me." "I've come here every year for over a decade, but it has all changed," she said, pausing to punch two buttons on the poker machine, "since the hurricane I mean." "The hotel across the street..." "Best Western, not a bad place. I stayed there a few times before the casino comped my room. But that's not the worst of it, the real charm here was to slip away from all this," she pointed around to all the slot machines, craps tables and other gaming, "and simply go for a drive." "I saw a lot of those old houses are down." "They're all down, not a single one remained standing. Those were old Antebellum houses from before the civil war, now it's all just driftwood, the soul of the city is driftwood. Well, what I called driftwood they call firewood now." "The casinos seemed to have survived." "Well, this one and the other big ones, but it's all just a façade now, behind the big fancy buildings is just stacks of debris and it's been over a year." "But aren't they rebuilding, I mean I saw at some of the house sites..." "Two by fours where grand post and timbers stood, shitrock instead of plaster and we'll never see the slate roofs again," her hand trembled a bit as she took a sip of her drink. "I guess you're right, my name's Harry by the way," he said, reaching his hand out to the woman. "I'm Morticia Adam, also known as Maureen, pleased to meet you Harry. You come here very much?" "On occasion, when work brings me to the area. I come primarily for the buffet and perhaps a bit of gambling. Looks like I am out of uniform." "Yeah, this is my first Halloween here. I rented the costume from one of the shops here. I always thought Morticia was so elegant," she said running her fingers over his hand until reaching the indentation where his wedding ring had been. She paused there a moment looking into his eyes. "I ugh..." Maureen just smiled and held up her hand showing him the similar indentation on her finger. "I think there is one other thing we are both looking for here. What do you say, I have a suite? Haven't you always wanted to make it with Morticia Adams?" "I've never thought of it before but I would love to see the suites here, let's go," Harry said, standing up from the barstool and holding a hand out to her. She clasped his hand, stood up and then turned to grab her purse. Harry hadn't noticed how tall she was until she stood. He looked up to her eyes, a full four inches above his. As they started walking out of the gaming area toward the elevators she leaned over toward him and whispered, "Don't worry, it's mostly the heels. Between them and the dress I'm gonna be lucky to make it up to the room without falling on my face." Harry looked up to her and smiled, "I like tall," was all he could think of to say. Once inside the room Maureen immediately kicked off her shoes and now Harry noticed there wasn't so much of a difference in their height. In the light of the room he could see her face a bit better and noticed she was a bit older than he originally thought. When he first met her he figured he was perhaps five or six years older than her, but now he realized it was more likely the other way around. They embraced and he kissed her, his tongue gently ran along her lips until she opened her mouth. His tongue slipped into her mouth and gently toyed with hers. While they kissed Harry reached around and unfastened her dress and began running the zipper down her back. When he reached her waist, she backed away from him and stepped out, gently folding the dress over a chair. In just her bra and panties, Harry looked down at her long, beautiful legs. She may have been nearly sixty years old, but she had the legs of a twenty year old. He couldn't resist reaching out and running his hand along her thigh and then up to her ass. Gently squeezing he pulled her to him and kissed her again. She quickly began unbuttoning his shirt while he slid out of his jacket and tossed it onto the chair where her dress was draped. Maureen unbuttoned his shirt all the way and then bent over, running her tongue over his nipples, gently biting them while running her hand down between his legs, rubbing his cock through his pants. It was odd, Harry felt excited but his cock hadn't come to a full erection, even with her stroking it through his pants. He reached around and fumbled with her bra a bit until she reached behind her and unhooked it. Her breasts were small and sagged down on her chest but the nipples where large and very erect. Harry squatted down taking one nipple into his mouth while he clasped her other breast with his hand. They stumbled closer to the bed and then came apart as each shed the last of their clothing. Harry's cock was still not completely hard so, while he was able to work the condom on he knew he wasn't ready for her, so when Maureen climbed onto the bed, he pushed her onto her back and moved his head between her legs. He was suddenly surrounded by her musky scent and as his tongue slipped into her pussy as was flooded with her tart flavor, he was sure his cock would get hard, but it didn't. Harry slurped in some more of her juices and then slid his tongue up her slit to find the sensitive nub. He slowly began circling his tongue over and around her clit feeling her begin to respond to the sensation. While he ran his tongue over her, he reached down and began stroking his cock, hoping he could get it hard. While he continued running his tongue over her clit, occasionally sucking the nub into his mouth, he moved his free hand up to her wet opening and slid three fingers inside her. Carefully moving his fingers he explored her pussy, coating his fingers in her, feeling the softness inside her. He then began to move his fingers in and out of her in unison with the motions of his tongue. Maureen reached down and held his head as her hips lifted and she pressed against him. She gasped, "Oh yes, yes, please, yes," as she ground herself on his face. Her breathing quickened and she began to moan. Harry began licking her clit faster and pushing his fingers deeper inside her pussy as she moaned louder and pumped her hips frantically. Finally she eased back down on the bed and Harry began to pull away. "Oh please don't stop, I was so close," she groaned. Harry continued, slowing his tongue down a bit to work her up again. In a few minutes she began lifting her hips to him again and he pushed his fingers deep into her. Sucking her clit into his mouth, he ran his tongue lightly back and forth. He cold feel her body trembling as she whimpered and then shoved herself hard against him again, but just as she seemed about to come, her body collapsed back onto the bed. Harry's jaw ached by then. She reached down and hooked hands under his arms pulling him up on top of her. Harry got up on his knees and moved closer. His cock had hardened some, but still wasn't all the way there when she grabbed it and guided it into herself. Harry slowly pushed himself into her. Normally it would not have gone in but she was so wet, even his partially hard cock slipped into her pussy and Harry began to thrust and withdraw. He tried gallantly for a minute or so but then pulled out of her and rolled over onto her side, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said to her. "No, no," Maureen replied, "It's okay, hell it happened to me too." "But..." "Shhhh, let's just stay here together," she whispered. He rested his head on her shoulder as she ran her hands lightly over his chest, down his stomach and over his cock and balls. The condom was still on but her touch was still nice. In response he moved his hands to her breasts, lightly running his fingers all over them, feeling the hardness of her nipples, feeling the goose bump like places on her areola. After a while he let his hand run down her stomach and he ran his fingers through her pubic hair, letting the strands encircle the fingers. Harry then moved his fingers downward, slipped them into her pussy and when they were lubricated he moved back up to her clit. He gently began rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, trying to touch it as lightly as possible. Maureen snuggled closer to him and said, "Mmmm, that feels so nice." Harry took a deep breath, taking in her scent while his fingers continued on her clit. He could feel her moving her hand up and down on his soft cock. After what seemed like just a moment he awoke as she said, "Harry, Harry." He opened his eyes and saw her smiling at him. "I hope it was me you were dreaming about." "What?" She looked down and as Harry followed her eyes, he could see his cock was now fully hard. "How did that happen, did I fall asleep?" Harry asked. "Let's not ask questions, let's go," Maureen said, pushing him onto his back and then straddling him. While he watched, she took firm hold of his cock and guided it into herself. She had dried out some since he had gone down on her so it didn't slide in immediately but Maureen worked herself up, down and then side to side to finally get it worked in. Once his cock was inside her, she began moving up and down, pausing each time she lowered herself onto him as she ground her clit against his pubis. He watched his cock pushing her pussy lips inward and then pulling them outward as she moved and Harry noticed the tendons to her thighs tighten as she moved. He moved his hands down to her thighs and squeezed them, feeling the strength in her muscles. As she continued moving she asked, "Do you mind if I touch myself?" "Go ahead," he said, watching as she moved her fingers up to her mouth and licked them, getting them real wet. She then moved them down to her clit and began rubbing the tiny nub as she moved. Harry watched as she moved faster and faster over him, the muscles all over her body seemed to be tensing up as her face began to get red. Her breathing quickened as she bounced on him, her breasts flapping as she moved. Harry quickly reached up and grabbed them, running his palms over the nipples, anything to get her over the edge. She moaned loudly, "So close, so close." He could hear her ass slapping against his thighs and he could feel her entire body begin to tremble. Her face was beet red when she finally cried out, "Oh yes Harry, yes, yes, I'm coming." She slapped herself on him two more times and then he entire body relaxed. Collapsing upon him, she whispered, "Oh Harry, Harry." He could feel her pussy pulsing on his cock as the rest of her just trembled over him. Tears dripped onto his face so he turned his head and began kissing her tears, drawing the salty taste into his mouth. She was still breathing hard when she asked, "Harry, will you do it to me doggy style?" Harry nodded and crawled out from under her as she lifted up one of her legs. He stood at the edge of the bed as she got onto all fours and backed to him. He leaned forward and felt her grab his cock and guide it. Once again it took several pushes to work into her, but once inside Harry grabbed her hips and began thrusting his cock into her. The change in position felt different on his cock and the bit of added stimulation along the top was feeling so good. He then felt a strange tickling at his balls and realized that Maureen had reached up under herself and was caressing her clit once again. Moving faster her could feel his balls beginning to bounce off her pussy and fingers and he heard the loud slap as he slammed into her. With his every thrust, she leaned back into him and in just a short time, she groaned and came again. Harry thrust his cock deep into her and paused, letting the contractions of her pussy roll along him. As they subsided he began pulling out and thrusting again, this time concentrating on the sensations. He slid in and out of her getting closer and closer, but not quite able to feel enough. With his legs starting to ache, he tried to change the angle of penetration some, moving a bit to the side. He seemed to push against a dry spot as his cock seemed to stick and then suddenly it released. With the release he suddenly was surrounded with a wet, soft sensation like he hadn't felt with her before. "Oh no, the condom broke," he groaned. "Don't stop," Maureen cried out, "Just don't stop." Holding her hips he continued sliding in and out of her wet softness, feeling all of her now. The sudden flood of sensation washed over him and in just moments he arched his back, shoved his cock as deep into her as he could and he came spurting splash after splash of his cum deep in her pussy. "Don't pull out. I want you to stay inside me," Maureen gasped. Harry held her hips and kept himself pressed tight against her ass. He fought to catch his breath as he felt his cock slowly begin to shrink. After a minute or so, he felt it slide out of her. He backed away and as she moved onto her back he climbed back onto her, his limp cock pressed over her wet pubic hair. His chest flattened her breasts as they kissed for a long time. When they finally stopped Maureen whispered, "Oh Harry, it took some time, but you sure know how to treat a woman." "I guess it was a bit of the trick or treat." "Or in this case, the trick and then the treat," she said, kissing him again. Harry then slipped off onto the bed next to her and they both drifted off to sleep. He didn't wake up until sometime the next morning when he felt her gently stroking his cock. "Good morning," he said, running his hand through her hair. "Morning Harry, I'd love to enjoy your body one more time, but I'm afraid it might kill us both." "Yeah, I'm just like a bit of driftwood now." "You know, is spite of everything around here, there is still something to be said for a nice piece of driftwood, no matter how old it is." They climbed out of bed and as Maureen headed into the shower, Harry pulled on his pants, shirt, socks and shoes. He met her as she stepped out of the shower, grabbing her towel and pulling her against him. He kissed her once again, slipping his tongue into her mouth to wrestle with hers. They drew apart and Maureen said, "Goodbye Harry." "Goodbye Maureen," he said slipping out into the hallway. He headed for the elevator. About an hour later, as Maureen stepped up to the counter to check out, the clerk said, "Oh, someone left something for you." "Are you sure?" He handed her a small cardboard box. It was torn and a bit wet, obviously not something purchased at one of the fancy shops there. She opened the box and saw it, a well worn, curved piece of driftwood. "There's no card ma'am." "That's okay, I know who it's from." "A Halloween gift?" "Yes, a Halloween gift of sorts," she replied with a smile. Driftwood Rogues Bay, Tortola, BVI Today There were a few low clouds scudding over the far horizon, but all in all the weather for the day was looking good...better than good, really, especially for this time of year. The air was cool enough to feel vaguely like Christmas, at least by Caribbean standards, yet it was still just warm enough for shorts and bare feet. The late-morning trades hadn't picked up so motion inside the narrow, finger shaped bay was still calm, and the single, blue-hulled sailboat in the bay rode gently at anchor a hundred meters off the small, kidney bean-shaped beach. For a Christmas morning in the British Virgins, the bay and the boat presented a serene, vaguely holiday-like picture to the man and the dog emerging from a bushy, overgrown trail at the south end of the bay. The dog, an ancient Springer Spaniel named Charley, walked dutifully by the man's side. Her's was a possessive, protective soul, and she had been with this human all her life, from the very moment of her birth. Though they hadn't always been so close, for the past several years the two had been all but inseparable: she slept on his bed, rode along with him in all his various contraptions, and generally speaking went all the places he went. It was rare when they were apart for more than a few hours, and she hated those small slices of time most of all. She lived for the long walks they took, on the other hand, especially walks on long sandy beaches or in the high mountains near timberline. Still, more than anything else in her world she loved it when he rubbed her ears. That feeling, she'd heard him say more than once, was the unshelled nuts...the very best of times. She loved him, cared for him as he cared for her, but today she slowed her step to keep pace with him as he walked onto the sand; she looked up at him from time to time and checked the way he breathed. There was something on his face, in his eyes, that concerned her, for he was breathing a little too hard. She slowed her pace a bit more and pretended to take more than a passing interest in a few clumps of grass, and so he stopped, took a few deep breaths through his mouth, then looked up and down the beach. "Hey, Charley-girl, I think there's a good piece down there," he said as he pointed down the beach. She turned and looked where he was pointing. Yes, there it was. A huge piece of ragged, gray wood. Driftwood, he sometimes called it. She took off at an amiable pace, then stopped dead in her tracks. She turned, looked at the boat in the bay, then cocked her head to one side. "Get out of here, you goddamned fucked-up bitch!" She recognized the tone, and even a few of the words. Angry words. Mean, hurtful words. An angry man's words. The hair on her neck stood straight up. She heard contact, physical contact, a scream, pots falling on hard surfaces, shocked cries of anguish. She stared at the boat, her concern now evident to the man walking well behind her on the beach. She looked back at him and barked once, then turned her attention back to the boat. She knew his attention would now be focused there too. A woman, half naked and screaming, ran up onto deck and dove overboard; more angry words followed in her wake as another person, one who almost appeared to be a man, came up on deck just after the woman hit the water. This man yelled and threw a bag overboard; it almost hit the woman in the water, then floated a moment before it began to sink. Without thinking, Charley sprinted down the beach and leapt into the water, swam past the startled woman and dove under a small wave just as the bag disappeared from view. She saw it immediately and took the bag's strap in her mouth, then clawed her way back to the surface. Unaccustomed to such an awkward, heavy item, she struggled to make her way back to the beach, only now, to make matters worse, the grainy water stung her eyes. Soon she felt the first waves of panic overtake her, and suddenly wondered why she was out in such deep water, but as her head popped up from under a wave and she knew her anxiety had been misplaced. There he was, just a few feet away now and coming out for her. She swam into his outstretched arms and put her hands around his neck. He took the strap from her mouth and lifted her head well clear of the water, and she licked his scruffy beard more than a few times, enjoying, as she always did, the way his fur tickled her tongue. He carried her along until the water was shallow enough for her to walk through, then he cast her free and they both trudged out of the water and waited for the woman, who was now almost to the beach. The man picked up his backpack on the way to her and slung it back on his shoulders. Charley ran up to the woman and sniffed her ankles as she circled round and round. The woman sat down on the white sand and looked up at her once; the woman's eyes were full of tears and she was breathing in deep, ragged gulps. Charley could readily see that the woman had a kind, if troubled soul, so she sat beside her and leaned into the woman's body. The woman leaned into Charley and put an arm around her, then began crying deeply, indeed, almost uncontrollably. Charley understood, but looked to her human as he walked up to them. His skin was very pale now, and clearly concerned, she focused on his eyes once again. Something still wasn't right; she could see that from the shimmering air all around him. When the man got to them, he sat down heavily on the sand. "Are you alright," she heard him ask the woman. Startled, the woman shook her head, then looked up and let go of Charley. Charley slipped free of the woman and went to her human's side. She leaned into him as if re-establishing a physical connection, and concentrated on his beating heart while she listened to his breathing. She looked up at him and licked his furry neck while she sniffed at his breath, trying to make sense of all she was taking in. "It's okay, girl," Charley heard him say, but she wasn't sure yet so she leaned in closer, pressing into him, in effect propping up his body while she listened to his chest. Then all of a sudden he was rubbing her ears and she slipped into bliss, so down she flopped - down on her back - in tail-wagging ecstasy. "Yes, it's okay now, good girl...just be easy..." "Did your dog get my bag?" Charley heard the woman ask. "Yup. She's kind of acts like a retriever, when she wants to, at least. I guess she saw it being thrown and instinct kicked in." The woman laughed through her tears. "What's her name?" "Charley." "Charley?" "Yup. She's a Steinbeck fan, I guess you'd have to say." "Who?" "Doesn't matter." "Do you live here?" "Nope. Boston. Look, are you alright? That sounded like like some kind of fight out there." Charley had watched as the woman spoke, clearly interested in what was going on. Now the woman looked away, and she couldn't see her eyes any longer. "Just one more - another in a long series." "Well, it's none of my business, but I've got a jeep up on the road if you need a lift into town." "Is there an airport around here?" "Yup, if you're headed to the U.S., there's a puddle jumper to San Juan." "New York City. Think I'll head back to my sister's place." "You sure don't have a New Yorker accent..." "I was born in Stockholm. My sister and I went to college - in New York. We decided to stay." "I see. Well, anyway, the airport's probably too long a walk from here. Charley and I are going to putter around down here for a while, but like I said, we'd be happy to drop you off." When he stood, Charley rolled upright and shook salt and sand off while she looked at the woman again; when she was sure they were both alright she took off down the beach toward the driftwood they'd spotted - before the ruckus on the boat broke out. "We'll be back in a little bit," the man said as he followed Charley. "Just yell if you need anything." The woman was rummaging around in her drenched bag as he spoke, then she looked up: "Do you have a phone I could use for a moment?" She was holding a dripping cell phone, and they could both tell the old flip phone would now make, perhaps, a wonderful paperweight. He smiled, dug his Iridium sat-phone from his knapsack, unlocked it and handed it to her. "Decent signal out here. You can call direct to the States; just enter the area code first, then the number, then send." He turned and walked off after Charley. "Thanks," he heard her say. "You bet." The trades were picking up now; he guessed the winds were up to about fifteen knots or so, and as expected, right out of the east, and he did the math while he walked. The jet was fueled already, and he'd need to be 'wheels up' by noon or thereabouts, but that was still a few hours away. He looked at Charley as he walked along, deep in thought about the girl back there talking on his phone. 'What a mess,' he said to himself. She was blond-haired and blue-eyed of course, and decent enough looking in a wide-eyed, Scandinavian sort of way, but there was something about her that screamed 'rode hard and put away wet'. Probably in her early thirties, he guessed; thirty-five, tops. She was cute but wore her troubles in her eyes. Clearly, she'd had a bad morning and wasn't at her best but she struck him as someone who made trouble everywhere she went. Charley was maybe thirty yards ahead when she heard more trouble. The man on the boat was yelling at the woman again, then the woman was firing a barrage of evil sounding words right back at the man. After this exchange, and without any more fanfare, the man on the boat weighed anchor, raised the main and Charley watched as the boat reached north, sailing out of the little bay and into the Caribbean beyond. The woman sat down on the beach again, head down and shoulders slumped. Charley saw the air around the woman was black with evil, and could tell the woman was crying, but the gray driftwood was close now, it's siren's song unmistakeable and suddenly as irresistible. She nosed closer to the drying wood, sniffed tentatively as she walked around it, measuring the wood and the air around it for anything out of the ordinary. The man walked up to the wood and looked down at it. "Pretty big piece," he said. "Weird shape though, hey girl?" And it was. The wood, half buried in sand and sparkling with dried salt particles, at first glance looked anything but unusual, but it was the shape of the piece that seemed somehow "off" to them both. Maybe four feet or so long, the wood was radically curved, almost unnaturally so. He bent over, began to lift it up when Charley barked. "What is it, girl?" the man said as he stood up and stepped back. Charley circled the wood, sniffed and barked again, then looked up him, her eyes full of concern. She saw the woman from the boat walking their way now and her anxiety only grew more acute. 'Something's not right,' Charley thought. 'What is it? Why does this feel like...?' "What is it, Charley?" "What's wrong with your dog?" the woman said as she walked up to the driftwood. "I don't know." Her arms and paws were outstretched and flat on the sand; her hip was arched up, her nubby tail pointing straight up toward the sky and very still. "Is there something under it?" the woman asked as she too circled the wood. "I don't know." He bent down to the wood again and ran his hand over it, feeling it, gauging his own reaction as he did. "Familiar," he whispered in shimmering air. "What...?" He grabbed the wood and pulled at it sharply. And then again. With a sucking sound the wood broke free of the wet sand and the man slipped and tumbled backwards; Charley howled and jumped away as the wood rolled over. "Oh my goodness!" the woman exclaimed. "It's magnificent!" The man stood, brushed sand off his shorts as he stood over the wood... The underside of the piece was a carved dolphin, but the carving looked as if it had been sanded, no, polished to a high sheen, because at first glance it seemed as if the body of the animal had been varnished. The man lifted the wood and carried it down to the water, and there he washed all the sand off. He looked at the dolphin closely, then dropped the carving on the beach and stumbled away. "Not again," he whispered as he took in the two scars on the dolphin's side. "No, God no, not again." +++++ Charley felt it first. The pulse seemed to come from deep within the wood, but then she looked toward the water and the hair on the back of her neck stood up again. There was something out there...she could feel it clearly now. Whatever it was, there was energy joining this piece of wood to something very powerful out there in the water. And whatever IT was, it was getting closer. +++++ "What is it? Is there something wrong?" the woman asked as she watched the man stagger back from the water. He stopped, turned and looked at the woman, then at Charley. He followed her eyes out to sea and squinted, tried to see what she felt, then it all came back in a rush. "We've got to get out of here," he said as he looked at the woman. "Now." "What? Why?" "No time. Charley! Come!" He grabbed the woman's hand and pulled her along, walked rapidly toward the trail the led to his jeep. He turned once and saw Charley was still focused on something, something apparently still far out to sea, so he whistled once again; Charley turned, saw him calling her. As if breaking free of a trance, she shook herself and ran after the man and the woman, looking back once over her shoulder as she did. She saw the dolphin's head break free of the water not far from the beach and stopped dead in her tracks. She was confused, and didn't understand the feelings washing through her, but she knew she'd seen those eyes before. She heard the man calling her name again as she turned and walked back toward the beach. +++++ Salzburg, Austria Tomorrow The man regarded his lunch as some might when a studied gaze falls upon a Renoir or Cézanne; he smiled, he fell into an inner peace, he drifted on currents of other times to distant days, to the other life that had so recently slipped from his grasp. The plate, pristine white with green trim, was a masterpiece - to his less than practiced eye, at least - but of more importance than the other "things" in this room, the plate held memories of that other life - and oddly enough, the food on the plate connected him to memories in ways little else could. Jägerschnitzel, spätzel, red cabbage, and of course a Stiegl bier, their famous dunkelmalz, so hard to come by anywhere but Salzburg: this was the formula that released memory. But of singular importance this day, his lunch could only happen in the old ground floor dining room in the Goldener Hirsch. The storied old hotel on the Getreidegasse - just doors away from where Mozart came into this life - was like a world unto itself. Whitewashed stone walls, heavy timbered ceilings, and an Old World ambience that only hinted at it's true medieval origins, he and his wife had stumbled across the hotel when they had taken a summer off right after graduating college. They had been following paths well worn by their parents and grandparents, the standard, almost preordained American tourist's rote pilgrimage to the Old World. Paris, Brugge and even Lübeck had filled the first few weeks of their trip, but then the Alps had beckoned, and so they turned south, south toward other memories. From Geneva they headed east, caught the narrow-gauge railway at Visp and wound their way up to Zermatt, to the magic valley defined by the Matterhorn. There was still snow in the shadow of that mountain - in winter, anyway - as there were still remnants in a few other very high regions of the Swiss and French Alps. The man and his wife had spotted the few traces that remained of the ancient glaciers that had once dominated the Gornergrat massif, but skiing was no longer a commonplace activity here - or anywhere else, for that matter. The weather was now too warm, but they wondered what it must have been like to ski on endless fields of white. The world was so different now, so much had changed so quickly, and few traces remained of those other times, especially here, deep in the Alps. After a week in Zermatt, they left that enchanted valley and wandered north and east through the Bernese Oberland, then the Engadin, and finally on to Innsbruck and Zell am See before finding themselves, quite by accident, in Salzburg. Drawn by memories of their parent's ramblings, they made their way to the cluster of domed churches and cathedra under an imposing cliff and soon found themselves on an ancient, roughly cobbled lane. They walked along the narrow way taking in shops full of loden capes and fine, finished leather goods. As it was midday and the air smelled heavenly food, they checked the menu posted outside a hotel's restaurant - and as such, a tradition was born. And for the next thirty four years they returned to the hotel, at first in summer, but as the years passed more often at Christmas, and over the decades their history melded within those stone and timber walls. They grew to appreciate that traditions like their's were unique, and something to cherish, and the man was certain that their firstborn had been conceived here Salzburg, and his remembrance always brought a smile to his chiseled, timeworn face. But as change is inevitable, his wife's passing left a dark chasm that only memory dared illuminate, and it had been years since he had returned to the hotel. Now, alone in the dining room, he regarded his surroundings as one might a very close friend...as someone or something that could be counted on...as that one constant in an ever-changing universe - and as the chalice of his memory. Even so, he looked around the room at tables and chairs and pictures on walls and regarded each as a bulwark, a wall that kept an overwhelming red tide of pain from rushing in, yet there was no sense of irony or contradiction in his perception of the moment. After picking at his food he settled the bill, then walked up narrow stone steps to the reception desk and got his key to their room - the same room they had first taken almost forty years ago - and every year thereafter - and as such he went up to take a nap, and wrestle with his memories. His was not a restful sleep, and the dreams that came for him were troublesome, if not most unwelcome. +++++ As the sun set, he showered, dressed, looked at his silver hair in the mirror before grabbing a sport coat and heading out the door into the night. The air on the street was warm, too warm for Christmas, and there wasn't a trace of snow to be seen anywhere. He took off down the Getreidegasse, intent on window shopping if anything at all, but soon he turned toward the massive cathedral under the cliff and made his way slowly to the plaza that surrounded the huge building. He walked around the massive gray structure to the entry, regarding it's implications pensively as he walked, then he made his way up broad steps to massive doors - and hesitantly walked inside. Churches, indeed, anything to do with religion, had always made him nervous, and walking into this massive church was no different. Thinking back, he reckoned it had been nearly thirty years since he had been in any kind of church, and he almost wondered why. While he'd never considered himself an atheist, organized religion made him uncomfortable...it always had...and that, he knew, made his decision to come here all the more troubling. Perhaps it was a feeling of community he sought, the spirit of continuity and certainty in an increasingly uncertain world, but if so he saw that need would remain unmet tonight. It was, he remembered, a weeknight and the nave was starkly barren, almost empty. Still, there were a few people under the transept, tourists like himself probably, and an organist was apparently practicing as from time to time the air inside the vast space rumbled and pealed as disjointed chords burst forth, flooding ancient airs with soul-jarring discordance. Driftwood But walking down the central aisle amidst concussive refrains, he suddenly felt a familiar presence, a feeling that was at once comforting and disconcerting. He stopped, looked around at massive columns and timeworn pews, then felt a shimmering in the air and saw that lights were flickering. Then he noticed the temperature inside the cathedral was now much colder - so cold in fact that vapor escaped his mouth when the breath he had been holding slipped past his lips. And the people, the people he had just seen under the transept - were gone. Only the music remained, yet now the sharp, penetrating notes of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto Number Three filled the air, and it was obvious the keyboardist was a master. Suddenly drawn to the music, he dashed through the choir and over to the organ, and stood watching in awe as the organist, an overweight, middle-aged man, flew through the piece without a single sheet of music in view. The organist and his instrument were as one, and the man suddenly had the very odd impression that the organist was none other than Bach himself. Looking the scene over, he noted the organist was certainly dressed for the part! And it was then, too, that he noticed the organist was playing by candlelight. Indeed, looking around the inside of the church he observed that the only light in the cathedral was coming from hundreds of burning candles, and that now the air was brutally cold. He turned, walked back through the choir and down the aisle to the massive entry doors and pushed them open. There was snow everywhere he looked, vast expanses of pristine, knee deep snow, and it was falling at a heavy rate. He looked across the plaza toward the Getreidegasse and saw not one street light burning, not one open shop, and feeling an edge of panic pushing inward he trudged off through the snow and made his way back toward the hotel. He'd never in his life felt air as cold as this, and he struggled against the weight of the snow and the sudden force of an unexpected wind - a gale that seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs. He paused to catch his breath and could just hear the last refrains of Bach's concerto dying in the wind, so he looked back toward the cathedral, and around the plaza. The same shimmering air he had seen inside the cathedral filled the plaza, then a sensation very similar to vertigo came upon him, and he felt an unseen force grab hold and push him to the ground, and then all was black. +++++ He was standing before a brightly lit shop window - it had to be an art gallery because the only thing in view was an ornately framed oil painting. He turned, looked around but all he could see was an inky blackness that enveloped everything beyond the gallery window. The vertiginous effect was complete, and nausea wracked his body. And worst of all, his hands were bitterly cold, and he looked at them with sudden concern. They were white, almost frostbitten, and there was ice on the tops of his hands, but now, inexplicably, the air was almost impossibly hot. He looked down at his shoes and saw melting ice from them, and he noticed snow tucked into the cuffs of his slacks as well. Still, he couldn't see the street, or any ground at all beneath his feet for that matter, only the same inky blackness that surrounded the gallery window. He wanted to turn and run, but then the thought struck him - there was nowhere to run "to"... it was almost as if his body was adrift in deep space. The feeling of vertigo grew overwhelming, enveloping him completely, and bile-tinged panic gripped his heart as he felt his stomach heave. He turned, looked at the painting in the window, regained some semblance of place and began to calm down. Then he saw a star reflected in the window, or what he took for a star, but when he turned to look at it there was something wrong about this particular star. It, whatever "it" was, was moving. It was moving toward him. He instinctively shut his eyes, if for no other reason than shut out this impossible world, then it hit him. He had to be asleep. He had never left his hotel room, and was dreaming all this nonsense. He opened his eyes, willed himself to wake, but now the star was very close, and the air was preternaturally still and inky black. He blinked. And again, trying to clear his eyes and his mind. "Wake up!" he shouted. The star settled in the ink above his head, and the painting in the window shimmered in the intense light, then the organist from the cathedral stood beside him, and he too was looking intently at the painting in the window. "Interesting, don't you think?" he said - out of the blue. "What?" The man turned and looked at the organist; the musician was dressed in knickers and a long coat, and his hair was, what? A wig? A powdered wig? "It's an interesting painting, don't you think. Do you remember?" "What?" "Do you remember?" "Remember? Remember what?" "Look at it, would you?" He looked. Again, and for the first time. A boat, a sailboat, lay at anchor in a picturesque harbor. A small harbor, a Mediterranean harbor, perhaps. The boat's name, just legible: Springer. There was a man standing on the back of the boat, looking down into the water. Looking down at - a dolphin? "So? Do you remember?" He stared at the scene for a while, but nothing came to mind. "No. Why should I?" "Ah. So..." He turned and looked at the organist, saw two scars under the man's right eye, but then the organist's form shimmered in the air, and began to fade... "Who are you? What's your name?" "You can call me... Johann, if that suits you," the wavering shape said as it disappeared into the blackness. He saw the faint contours of a smile hanging in the air apparent, and then all was black, even the painting in the gallery window was gone, and he felt himself falling, falling... He was conscious of the bed, that he was in bed, aware of sweat forming on his neck and running down his back, then he saw that his jacket was draped over the chair by the window, and his shoes and slacks lay in a discarded heap on the floor by the bathroom. "Shit, that was the worst fucking nightmare I've ever had in my life," he said as he got up from the bed. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and then he saw the last remnants of snow melting inside the cuffs of his pants. +++++ The Massachusetts Bay Colony, New England Yesterday The girl walked along the shoreline collecting driftwood to use for firewood, though she stopped to pick up seashells or the odd, brightly colored stone she came upon from time to time, and while not quite bored this was a chore she handled several times a week. Her's was an important task, too, for her brothers rarely had time to spend gathering wood after a long day working the fields, or worse still, hunting in the woods west of the colony. There were bears about now that autumn had arrived, and there had been reports of wolves taking livestock near Bradford's Plymouth Plantation. Of even greater concern? The local "Indians". For what had once been a strained, if somewhat cordial coexistence had after a few years fractured as colonists - like her brothers - encroached on the native's territory and openly, if not quite brazenly, taken game from their land. Though open hostilities were rare, colonists had spent most of the summer reinforcing the colony's outer fortifications, and a few of the "Indians" she had run across on her waterfront gatherings had treated her with a cool contempt. Still, despite the language barrier, she had made more than a few friends in several of their nearby villages. Yet even so, she counted "Indians" - along with the dangerous indigenous wildlife one could happen upon at any time - among the things she kept a wary eye out for. Her brothers had taught her well to trust little in this dangerous New World, and it was a lesson she had grown to appreciate from the experiences of other colonists. That, and she did not consider herself a fool. From time to time whales visited the inner bay, and on hearing the unmistakable sound of a whale broaching and clearing water from it's blow-hole, she looked up from her chores and turned to see what she guessed was a mother and calf swimming along the shoreline. The girl stood transfixed, for she had never seen a pair so close to the beach before; indeed, she felt a mad, impulsive desire to dash out into the water and swim out to touch them. As if reading her mind, the mother turned away from the beach and disappeared beneath the surface; her calf dutifully turned and followed, and the girl wistfully looked after them for a while before turning her attention back to gathering wood. It was then that she heard a rustling in the tall grass that lined the beach, and she froze and looked intently for the source of the sound. Turning her head just so, she picked up the noise again, only the noise was a lot closer than she'd previously guessed. Now she wondered how long it would be before this phantasm revealed itself. She did not have long to wait. Not too very far away, a smooth, bronze haired catamount walked out of the grass and onto the beach, turning it's head first away from the girl, then directly at her. The big cat froze in it's tracks, then lowered it's head a bit as it stared at the girl. The girl knew the outermost ramparts of the colony were almost a mile away, certainly too far to run back to, and as suddenly she knew her life was over. It was as if all decisions concerning the time and place of her death had just been made for her, and now there was nothing left to do but calmly wait for the end. The cat turned and began walking slowly towards her. And it was then that she noticed an arrow sticking out of the cat's rear side, and that the cat was quite ill. It walked almost as if it was taken with too much drink: it wobbled, she now saw, almost unsteadily toward her, and as the cat drew near she sensed that the animal was in a deeply fevered pain. She knelt on the beach and held out her hands as if to show the animal she posed no threat, but as the cat drew near it simply collapsed onto the wet sand in front of her. She leaned over and stroked the cat's head, then felt it's nose. Hot and dry, so hot in fact that it almost felt as if it was on fire. Then she looked at the arrow. It had penetrated the cat's rear leg on the right side and gone all the way through, leaving the arrowhead to repeatedly slash into the inside of the cat's left leg. Both wounds were maggot-ridden and filthy and, she assumed from the look of them, very badly infected. The only thing she could think to do was to wash the cat's wounds, and then maybe try to get the arrow out. She stood and turned toward water, then stumbled backwards in shock. The whale - the mother, she assumed - had returned and was now impossibly close to the beach, but it was the whale's small, brown eye that gripped her heart. Their was a penetrating directness in the animal's gaze that disoriented the girl, and for a moment she feared that she was in some obscure way being judged. She could make out huge, deep scars on the whale's side, and wondered for a moment if it, too, had been hurt in some way. Without really thinking, she then walked slowly to the water's edge and cupped water in her hands, then walked back to the cat and rinsed it's oozing wounds. She returned to the water again and again until she was satisfied the dirt and pus were gone and the wounds were running clear, then she turned to the shaft of the arrow. When she touched the shaft of the arrow the cat flinched, opened it's eyes and looked at her, but the animal seemed too weak to do more than lift it's head. Without hesitating, she broke the shaft above the wound and pulled it through the leg, and a fresh torrent of blood and pus ran from the freshly opened sores out onto the sand. The girl dashed back to the sea and ferried more water to rinse the wounds, then she removed a kerchief from around her neck and tied it around the cat's leg, staunching the renewed flow. Only then did she turn to look back at the whale, but it was...gone. There was no sign of it at all, either close to the beach or further away, out to sea, and she found herself wondering if she had ever really seen it. Perhaps, she thought, it had all been a dream. Then as suddenly she heard music, and turning back to the cat she found herself almost face to face with the beast. It was standing now, and eyeing her menacingly, but then it turned and sniffed the kerchief around it's leg, then the girl's hair. The cat circled her once, and again, rubbing up against her roughly as it paced, then it walked off slowly into the grass, stopping only once to look back at the girl. Again, she felt as though she were being judged, and the feeling unnerved her...but then there was the music. It was strange, whatever it was, totally unfamiliar in form, but whatever else it may have been, what she heard now was certainly music...but out here? Where? On the shore? Or coming from the grass? Then she was certain of it. The music was coming from deep within the grassy field adjacent to the shoreline, and it appeared as if the cat was walking directly toward whoever was out there. She had to warn whomever it was, so she took off through the grass, and took note that she was following the big cat's trail. The cat's prints came to an abrupt end, and there she found a man sitting on a blanket. He was sitting cross-legged on the blanket but even so appeared gaunt, almost emaciated, yet the most conspicuous thing about the man was the small round spectacles he was wearing, for they were tinted a very deep blue, and she had never in her life seen anything even remotely like them. And his hair! It was straight and so very long, but she couldn't recall ever seeing a man with hair so long. The man was playing a stringed instrument he cradled gently in his lap, and singing about pools of sorrow and waves of joy and images of broken light and none of it made any sense to her...but suddenly - like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky - everything the man sang made perfect sense. And with this realization came the feeling, startlingly clear in it's intensity, that she had seen and heard it all before...the whale...the cat...and this man singing about something called the universe, and then everything was spinning in shimmering air. Thoroughly disoriented, she sat down not far from the man and listened to his music, yet he never once looked up at her. He seemed, in fact, oblivious to his surroundings, almost as if he wasn't really there beside her. Then he stopped playing and looked up at the sky, then down again until he was looking directly at her. "Is that your cat?" he asked. "What?" "The cat. Is that your bloomin' cat?" She turned, saw the catamount sitting on the ground behind her, contentedly licking a paw while it looked at the man. "Uh, no. I thought it must be yours..." "That's a fookin' big cat." "It's hurt." "It doesn't look fookin' hurt, Eleanor Rigby. It looks bleedin' hungry..." "Eleanor? My name's not..." "Oh, I know, girlie. Just an expression." He looked around the grass, looked perplexed as if these were not his expected surroundings. "Where am...where is this?" "You don't know?" "I'm pretty sure I wouldn't ask if I knew, ya know?" "Did you walk up from Plymouth?" "Plymouth?" he intoned - as if not sure what she was talking about. "No, I don't think so..." "Oh? Where did you come from?" The man looked around these strawberry fields again, then at the huge cat, then down at his hands and the instrument in his lap. "I'm not...I can't remember..." "Well, this is the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and Plymouth is down that way," she said, pointing roughly to the southeast. "Didn't you come from there? Are you lost?" "Lost?" Again, the dead tone in his voice defined the moment, then he looked down at the musical instrument in his lap and began playing again. "Nothin's gonna change my world, girlie," he sang, but in the same flat affect, and with that he abruptly stopped. "You been to the carnival yet?" "The what?" "The carnival. You must be from the carnival." "I'm not sure what that is," she said. "Where is it?" He looked around the field again, only now looking very confused, confused - almost to the point of tears. "What the fook!" he screamed suddenly - as he recoiled from an unseen blow. It was as if he'd seen something awful, or that something quite unexpected had just happened to him. "What is it?" she cried out, but the man's form began to shimmer in the afternoon light, turning first a bright silver, then brighter and brighter. She saw blood erupting on the man's shirt, a very confused look on his face, then stark fear in his eyes as his form turned into pure light. She turned away, shielded her eyes as she tried to look at him, but then he was gone. She opened her eyes and the cat was there, yawning, and looking at her. It rolled over on the grass and presented it's belly to her, and without thinking she began rubbing the huge cat's fur. Then she noticed all the wounds she had cleansed were gone, and she looked at the animal's eyes again. She felt something kind, something almost compassionate about the animal's eyes now, and once again, that same sudden feeling of familiarity. Shaking her head, she stood and the cat stood too, then it leaned into her as it sniffed her clothing, then her hair. She heard someone calling her name. A familiar voice. She turned toward the ramparts and saw her brother running her way, and several more colonists following behind him. She looked at the cat, saw it looking at the people running their way, then she saw it look up into her eyes once again before it settled into a slow trot and ambled off into the grass. Her brother arrived seconds later. "Was that a lion?" he was pointing off into the grass as he spoke, but he struggled to catch his breath. "A lion? Are you serious? Good Lord, no!" He leaned over, struggling to breathe. "What the devil is that!" he gasped out, pointing at the grass behind her. She turned, looked at the ground, saw a spreading stain of blood there - then she jumped backwards, slamming into her brother and almost knocking him down. "I don't know," she said, her voice now dripping with uncertainty. "I - don't - know." Her brother stood upright and looked around the field. "I know I saw a catamount," he said, still breathing hard. "It must have killed a deer - here. Maybe you came along - and scared it. Dragged it away - into the woods. We'd better - get out of here." The other colonists had gathered round now, and they saw the blood, heard her brother talking about having seen a big cat. That was enough for them. "Let's get out of here," one of them said, and there was a general assent to that proposition. She turned to look for the cat again, but there was no sign of it at all, so she turned and looked out to sea. Nothing. Nothing anywhere. "I've got to fetch my wood," she said. "Alright then. Let's go." It was a long walk back to the colony, and a very cold wind fell in from the north woods. She heard the man's music, heard it in her mind's eye. What had changed his world, she wondered? +++++ (A note in passing: There are times when I've been at sea, usually late at night and while "on watch", that I struggle to stay awake; in conversations with other sailors I've found this to be an ever-present and often hard fought battle. I've also found that, more often than not, one of the most enjoyable ways for me to stave off falling asleep is to think up storylines, and many of the the stories I've posted here on Literotica have sprung to life under these conditions. 'Driftwood' came to be on a short passage from Annapolis, Maryland to Penobscot Bay, Maine a few years ago, and it was on this trip that the bare outlines for a forthcoming story titled 'An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian' came to be. To those of you who've read Tom Goodwin's and Margherita Morretti's song in my 'Passegiatta' series (released here on Literotica in 2008), the "metaphysical contours" of 'Driftwood' may seem (hopefully!) familiar, but don't jump to too many conclusions just yet. If you haven't waded through Passegiatta, and all the way to the bitter end, you might want to consider doing so in the next few months (and this assumes 'Driftwood' piqued your interest). I say this as 'Driftwood', and to an even greater extent 'An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian' are indirect outgrowths of that story. And I've used the term 'song' advisedly as well, for the way I develop many of these seaborne stories is to take my sodden, discombobulated ramblings, and then sit down at a keyboard, a portable piano keyboard of the 25 key ilk, and there these tales take shape, but first musically, as it were. Then comes the fun part. "Writing" - by trying to combine my memories of these ramblings with the emotive language of music, but into words. 'An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian' has bounced from such errant mid-watch musings to music to scribbled passages over many years, and it's still not where I want it, but it's getting close. Hopefully you'll find it posted here soon, but on another note I wanted to pass along that the earlier and hideously convoluted three part series entitled 'The Starlight Sonata' still remains unfinished, but I like where it's headed. Assuming I don't get hit by lightning or somehow shuffle off this mortal coil in the interim, expect to see a final 'one part' rendering of 'Starlight' sometime in the next year or so. I think a lot of loose ends will be tied together with this piece, and hopefully in an interesting way. Anyway, to those here on Lit who like to share comments at the end of these stories, please know that they're appreciated very much, and that for me they have helped make the journey worthwhile. "AL":12/25/2014) Driftwood Tom Goodwin Margherita Morretti