What it says.

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Charlie Dobson's world rocked gently from side to side under his back.

"Mister?"

The world was coming back to him through a fog -- first the rocking; then the sound of washing waves rising and falling from below, and a faint, rhythmical creaking from overhead; then, the feeling of a hard, even surface under him.

"Mister? Are you awake?" A girl's voice. A small one.

"Mmh," Charlie grunted. "Somewhat." He felt around with his fingers. Wooden boards.

"Aye then. What's your name, Mister?"

Charlie opened his eyes. He was greeted by the round, concerned face of a little girl, couldn't have been older than six or seven, big eyes staring back at him and long hair hanging down around her face, tickling his nose.

"Charlie. Charlie Dobson. Well, Charles. But they call me Charlie."

Satisfied with the answer, the girl withdrew, revealing what Charlie accurately judged to be an evening sky, and a ship's rigging. Wooden masts and spars, with white canvas sails, bloated in the wind. He tried to sit up, but the moment he lifted his head from the deck it started pounding, and he decided to leave it where it was for the time being. He took a few steady breaths, and the headache began to clear with the fog. With the increasing lucidity came questions. Why was he on a ship? And a wooden ship, of all things - did they even make them out of wood any more?

Memories started drifting to him. Last he remembered, he'd been in New York. No, he'd been on a ship, then he'd been in a lifeboat. No, he'd been in the cold, wet darkness of the ocean, drifting to nowhere in the middle of the night...

"Want a pillow, Mister Charlie? Or a blanket?"

"Um. A pillow would be nice. Thanks."

Little feet pattered in the direction of, judging by the sails, the back of the ship - what was it called? - the stern, and returned after a while. Charlie's head was lifted carefully by two hands, and a pillow tucked underneath. He could see the girl now, sitting on a cast-iron cannon, dangling her feet in the air. She reminded him distantly of Alice, though this one had a pink dress, with frilly edges. And she had brown hair. She was looking at him quizzically. Charlie felt like he was expected to say something, but he didn't know what it was.

After a moment, the girl said, "I had tea a moment ago and I reckon there's still some left in the galley if you fancies it, Mister Charlie."

Charlie nodded. The girl jumped down onto the deck and ran off again. She returned with a big pewter mug in her hand. She offered it to Charlie. The steam had an odd scent, like black currants and peppermint.

He tried to lift his head, then let it fall back to the pillow with a grunt. The girl put down the mug and Charlie felt her hook her arms under his and drag him to the left side (port, Charlie remembered distantly) and lay him against the bulwark, the pillow at his back. She then handed him his tea.

"Thank you. For the pillow, too."

The girl just smiled. Charlie took a sip. It was a strange flavor, berries and mint and a hint of coconut, but then again, he didn't drink much tea. He was more of a coffee person. It wasn't regular tea, that was for certain. Maybe it was green tea, he mused. His sister drank green tea. Whatever tea this was, Charlie concluded, it was actually quite pleasant. Odd, but pleasant.

"Why do you look like that, Mister Charlie?"

"Like what?"

"Like, like funny like that."

"I don't understand."

"Like, when I look at you, I don't sees the ship."

Charlie didn't know what to say to this, so he bought himself some time by peering into his tea and looking thoughtful. "Um. Maybe you don't see the ship because, well, I'm in the way? Aha. Ha. Um."

The girl cocked her head to the side.

"I don't see the ship when I look at you, either."

She looked at him. Then she looked at her hand, the ship, then at nothing in particular that Charlie could see towards the bow, the at him again. "I s'pose that's it." She watched him sip his tea. "But the others don't look like that. Just me. Oh, and Mister Roger. But he's a flag, so that's different."

"Who?"

"Mister J. Roger."

"No, who are the others?"

"Mister Tom and Miss Cindy and Mister Harry and everybody. They're the crew. You know. They used to be pirates but now they is sorry."

"Are they inside?"

"Some of them. Some of them is on the deck. You can't see them, 'cause they is invisible."

Charlie had heard of this. Lonely children made up imaginary friends to play with. He felt kind of sorry for her.

Off to the starboard side, the sun was touching the water already. Must've been getting late.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't, 'cause you didn't asked me."

"Sorry. I'm asking now. What's your name?"

"Melissa."

"So, Melissa, how'd you get on the ship?"

"I was first on this other ship, but it got broken, and I was lost in the sea for a long time. And Mister Harry sawed me and jumped into the sea and rescued me, and Mister John hauled him back up with a rope. Just like they did with you, Mister Charlie."

That's what he would have asked next - 'How did I get on the ship?' - but Melissa had answered both questions now. Not that either the answers made sense.

"Mister Johnny says it's a miracle you isn't ended up in the locker of Mister Jones."

"Who's he?"

"I don't really know. He's not on our ship so maybe he's on a different ship. Anyway, I don't think the crew really likes him. They sounds angry when they talks about him."

Charlie watched the rigging, watched the sails catch the wind. He looked at the helm, turning back and forth anemically. "How does this ship, you know, work?"

"Oh, I don't knows about that."

What did that mean, then? That the ship was magic and somehow steered and sailed itself?

"It's the crew that sails the ship. I can't do it meself, I just watches. Sometimes they lets me hold ropes for them, but I think they is just being nice to me."

Ah. That explained everything. It was sailed by her invisible friends.

"It's gonna be dark soon. You can see the crew when the sun goes down, 'cause they is only visible in shadow. If you wanna to know how the ship works, you can asks Mister John. He's the captain, you know. But he lets me live in the captain's cabin and sleep in the captain's bed. Isn't he nice?"

Charlie nodded, befuddled. This girl had an imagination. He looked at his mug. It was empty; he had nowhere to hide his confusion. A moment passed in silence.

"You hungry?" Melissa inquired suddenly. "There's soup in the galley. I made it meself. You want soup, Mister Charlie?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Melissa disappeared into the galley again. Soup? Made from what? Charlie doubted there were many kinds of food that kept without refrigeration, which this ship was unlikely to have. But if that was so, what did the girl eat?

She reemerged from the staircase leading to the galley, a bowl in her hands. She offered it to him. There were potatoes in it, and carrots, and fish. He understood where the fish was from well enough.

"I had to do something with the veggies before they rotted, and I asked Mister Jimmy so he teaches me to makes soup."

"How long have you been on the ship?" Charlie asked. He gave a piece of potato an experimental nibble. It tasted fresh.

"I don't know. I is had two birthdays though."

"Oh." That would mean more than two years, but the girl could have been having herself a birthday every other day for all he knew. "Where is, I mean, where are the vegetables from?"

"The Golden Merchant gives them to us for delivering things. He's nice. He's really tall. He's kinda green and he says some people call him frog, but I think that's really mean and I think he's really handsome. I never call him frog and the crew don't, either. You know, I bet you'd like to meets him."

"I'm sure I would."

Charlie looked at the sun again. You weren't supposed to look directly at the sun, but it was nearly below the horizon now and he didn't care that much anyway. It was like the zebra crossings in London, optional.

It was already much darker than when he'd come to. Couldn't have been more than half an hour ago. Could it? He'd heard darkness comes quickly when you're near the equator. It sure was coming faster than it ever did in New York. In New York, it never really came at all. Charlie turned his eyes up at the sky and watched the sky blacken and the stars come to life. You never properly saw the stars in New York.

"Mister Charlie!" Melissa sounded excited.

"Hmm?"

"You can see the crew now."

Charlie looked.

Charlie almost had a heart attack.

* * *

Okay, that's enough for today, but I'm intending to continue this storyline further. I'm pretty pleased with today's work, actually. It's not horridly late and I've got a decent word count and everything. Three cheers for phalmy! Huzzah.

When you're next on a ship, grip tight on to the railing and peer over the side and into the depths.

The sea is dark, but if you had eyes that could see far enough and could see clearly enough, you would see the ocean floor, covered in sand. You would see creatures -- depending on where you are, they could be just tuna, or they could be pretty fishes in the colors of the rainbow, swimming through the coral reefs, or they could be bloated, weird critters with sharp fangs and a lantern hanging over their head, bobbing side to side as they swim.

And if you had really, really special eyes, you could see beyond that. Because our ocean floor is the very farthest edge of another world. It's the world where Atlantis sunk to and from where R'lyeh will rise.

Just as our ocean is the far strand skirting the deep realm, our sky is the end of another world. Our sky is the southernmost edge of their sea.

The people in that world - and yes, there are people - live on a great continent (which they call simply the Old Continent) but it is far from our skies; even most of their seas are in places where we cannot see them, even if we could travel anywhere on the globe to look for them.

But there is one of that world we can still see.

You see, when the Creation of the Old Continent ended, the Gods left it one by one. The God of Light fled to the east, and circles their world as a sun. The God of Fire rose to their heavens (which could be seas in another, ever more distant realm -- but who knows?) in a whirl of smoke, and traveled to the north. He still shows himself in the cold of winter, in dancing lights against the dark night sky.

The God of Growth went walking to the West and was never seen again. And there were, of course, others.

The God of Thunder was the last of them to leave the Old Continent. He set sail from the southernmost peak of the land, the waves frothing against the side of his longboat as a final farewell. And on the shoreline stood the Ancients, the new wardens of the Continent, giving their silent respects to him and, through him, all of godkind. So the God of Thunder sailed south until he came to the edges of their world.

Next time there's a storm, watch the sky. Look for a great, round dark cloud - because it's not a cloud at all. It is the longboat of the Thunder-god, sailing so close to the earth the tallest trees tickle its humongous belly. And once you find that vessel, try to look above it, and you may see the god himself, his black eyes on the horizon and his beard flowing in the wind.

* * *

I feel immature. Everybody else is writing about, y'know, real people and real life. What I want the most is to tell tales about things you see in the weirdest of your dreams - or, you can guess me, make up for yourself as you sit on the balcony, admiring the thunderstorm. I guess I'll always be a brat like that.

But guess what? I'm not sorry. Not one bit. Nyah nyah.

It's hot as fuck here.

It's got to be around noon by now. I know this because the shadow I've been occupying, thrown by the squat watchtower at the east end of this shitbrick bunker I'm sitting on, is rapidly shrinking into nothing. I can already feel the sweat starting to trickle down the side of my face. The bastard sun of the Middle Eastern warzone is grinning down at me smugly, like some kind of retarded white cymbal.

I discarded my shirt long ago. I have to keep the scarf, though, if I don't want the wind to give me a mouthful of sand. Bloody rag chafes horridly if I try to move my head, I'm going to look like a hanged man when I get back. I'm chewing on the back end of a matchstick -- not because I like matchsticks, but because on a day like this a man needs his nicotine; only Amir the Useless Cunt was supposed to be back with my cigarettes half an hour ago and I'm getting just a mite impatient.

I'm here to check up on our investment. Well, it's not really our investment, it's the investment of the Babylon movement, the insurgents, only we're making the investment for them. Which is only fair, since the movement is our investment. Or if it's not them, it's the shit they're kicking up.

So I'm here to see that they kick up as much shit as possible. Only in this heat I'm constantly catching myself focusing on the idea of a nice, cold beer instead of the investment, which finished demonstrating its marksmanship some fifteen minutes ago and is now marching past my vantage point for the second time.

I have to admire them, though. I mean, the sand must be this close to melting into a solid plate of glass at this point, and half of them don't even have shoes on. They're marching in a large box pattern, in full gear and with rifles slung over little shoulders. Amir the Lazy Bastard took the jeep, didn't he? Thought as much.

It's not like they're much use fighting, these kids with guns. But there's something about having to kill children that just gets under a westerner's skin like no other. Especially if he has children of his own. You might think it makes it easier that the kids are trying to kill you, too. It doesn't.

The Babylon movement's psychological weapon has now passed me in its entirety and is heading away again. Alec said Mahmud had wanted to throw in another batallion for two-thirds the price, but we turned down the offer. We don't want to give the insurgents the upper hand. We just want to fuck with their political terrain while everyone's busy killing everyone else. Besides, what good will that be if they actually overthrow the regime?

Look, the bureaucrat is coming out of the bunker. Hi, Alec.

"Hey. We're going."

That's not a moment too soon. Alec vomits out a string of words to Mahmud, who responds in the same awful regional gibberish. He shouts something to the kids and they stop marching.

Alec squints at the sky. "The chopper should be here in five."

Then, the son of a bitch lights himself a cigarette. You had cigarettes, you whore? He gets the same smug look as the sun and Christ, I'm so angry I just want to punch his face in. "You didn't ask, did you?"

* * *

Ridiculously close to the deadline. Which is to say, two minutes before midnight. I'm trying to post on consecutive dates.

Anyway, here's a main character you're actually supposed to hate.

Empress, your servant approaches. He gropes at the frozen forest air in coarse gasps. As he expels it again his breath turns to mist, hanging on the air like a ghost of the banner he used to carry. The cheeks that used to flare red against the cold gave up their resistance hours ago; now the whips of winter pelt your servant's face with newfound mirth, and the ice has reached in and penetrated the marrow of his cheekbones.

He has ceased to recite his prayers; it has been long since he had enough of his voice left to carry over the wail of the wind and the crackle of the snow under his boots.

A wrist-thick branch, frozen solid, snaps like a leper's finger under your servant's feet. He fights to keep his balance and manages not to fall over. He must keep his balance and, above all, he must keep moving, steady steps up the shallow slope. What was once a physical effort has become mindless trudging; he doesn't even feel his feet anymore, he is moving forward only because his legs have forgotten what it means not to walk. His feet have forgotten how to stop.

Your servants fought valiantly, Empress, but the winter took its toll, and the heretics and savages from the north outnumbered us heavily. Only this standard bearer escaped their wrath, and since then he has done his most to reach you with greatest expediency.

His steed allowed him to gain the first three hundred miles with haste, but it expired before the last one hundred. Your servant has been covering ground as fast as he has been able, but weariness and cold have impeded his progress. The enemy is on the move even as your servant makes his way now. He prays he will be on time to bring these grave tidings before the Throne.

The wind ceases. This brings temporary relief from the bite, but the wail still rings in your servant's ears. Just as he doubts his voice will ever be with him again, he is afraid the wailing will.

The trees sparse out abruptly as your servant reaches the top of the hill. The sun gets through to your servant here, and he is heartened by the bit of warmth it brings him. But he is even more heartened to see the golden tower of Lufundi, the Hall of the Throne, glinting in the distance. The sky is cloudless and, on the bald head of the hill, the sight is clear.

Your servant feels a jolt in his chest.

He looks down to find his coat pierced by the shaft of an arrow. It runs flawlessly through the bearskin and it has splintered the bottom of your servant's breastbone. On the arrow's bodkin tip, he recognizes red drops of his blood, blood belonging to the Throne.

He tries to utter a plea of forgiveness, but his throat has died long ago, and the rising wind suffocates even the weak rasp of his last breath.

Your servant has failed you.

* * *

A humble (not to mention late) start. But at least it's a start. I'll try to cook up another one in the remaining hours of today to catch up. Meanwhile, feel free to comment on this work.

My friend Mr. Marrow has come up with a challenge for my dear locos and locas at project Locution. It goes as follows:

"I challenge you all to write something creative every day for the next 30 days. Every day you will then post your creation in a blog for everyone to see. It does not have to be heavily polished, but it does have to be new work. The idea is just to get creativity flowing, which I know from personal experience can be a real bitch to do."

Let's face it - I've been in a real slump, writing-wise; I've been slacking off and making horrible excuses. Sometimes they have been legitimate ones - I have been busy with school; I have had other work piling up on me. But now it's summer, I have nothing but time. Yet, I don't write. This can largely be attributed to one fact, i.e. I am a lazy bastard. So, something like this is the perfect cattle-prod for me; the perfect kick in the literary ass, that little carrot-cum-stick I need in order to actually achieve anything of merit.

And this is why I, (so help me God), pledge to post one piece of creative work every day for the next 30 days.

Alea iacta est.


Other participants' blogs:
J. Marrow
Eladnarra
Architectonic
Crihavoc
Fuchsia
Missedtarget
Tracer
Rouxinol
Meristele
Sarck