The Tolling of the Tides by Steven N (reading the story of the .txt) 📕

Imperfect, yet flawless and necessary. Constantly morphing, evolving, yet eternally constant. How strange are the mental circumstances of a man staring out into the vastness of the sea? An overwhelming glory that morphs even the most hardened sailor into a babbling philosopher. Albeit, with nary a backwards glance from the Ocean, he once again becomes a slovenly, ass scratching wretch. However, humanity is a civilization of wretches itself, constantly plundering, brutally raping and depleting natural beauty.

The waters covering the world have been fully tapped and exploited. Although the natural world is seen as dormant, the sea is anything but calm, it emanates, and it is restless and relentless. Each breaker willing to do what is necessary, even if that obligation is to drown humanity. The innocent mens-rea of nature is to guard its own sanctity and innocence. Floods, droughts, frequenting tempests and tsunamis. Poseidon’s arsenal is able to easily wash clean the self-contented accomplishments of the human race. The dastardly villain who in the youth of the world, thought to taint the sea with salted poison. The stranded lap up the salty water in hopes of salvation, but become exceedingly thirsty and grow violently ill. Such is the natural world's greatest irony; surrounded by water, without a drop of which to drink.

Unlike the stranded, a lack of drink never was the obstacle for Douglas Jones, who delighted in exotic waters from springs in subterranean, Scandinavian wells..Commonly known as "Swedish tap-water". Even know, miles above sea-level, in an airplane, he demanded freshly squeezed orange juice and a plump, seedless lemon resting on the side of his frothing liquor. What splendid tones and colours must form his flawed perception for him to think of such degrading and unimportant demands of a young American stewardess. Does he foolishly believe that there is a midget or some underpaid Spaniard in the back of the cock-pit squeezing oranges? For what reason would they serve? For just an occasion in which some prick might think to ask for the pretentious accommodation?

Douglas sitting limply in the spacious seats in the business section of the airplane, releases a yawn from the deepest chamber of his temple. He was exhausted, anxious to get off of this damn plane. Every ounce of sleep he received was quickly revoked by the lingering suspicion of terror. Had the plane crashed? is there a malfunction? Is the driver asleep? is there a terrorist aboard? These are the reason depriving questions that he had asked himself every passing minute while aboard the plane.

It would be unfair to label Doug as a suspicious, eccentric and nervous wreck... Quite simply, the reason for this personal unrest is that Douglas doesn't totally trust the pilots. Not that he could have done a damn thing in the cockpit if he was commissioned, but it is better for him to put his faith in himself than to rely on another faulted human. "Pilots, ha, really just the overpaid bus drivers of the sky" mumbled Douglas. Upon releasing the comment, he chuckled in a self-appreciative manner, and then he quickly folded his arms in a manner, as if to say, "Come at me".

After working on the business presentation on his laptop for almost twenty-two consecutive minutes, he decided to reward himself. He would enjoy the view, he decided. He glared out the windows as if he was honoring the clouded sky and outstretching ocean with his regarding of it. Blue and a lot of it. He turned away shortly after, deciding then to focus on more important things by focusing on the hanging lavatory sign ahead of himself. The green lights that marked the washrooms' liberty were fully lit. He arose from his lounged position and made his way down the hall, surveying the corridor, perhaps to look for a partner with whom he could accompany to the washroom (they were at least a mile high, after all).

He moseyed past rows and seats of Asian women. Very erotic... err... Exotic! He was told years ago that Asian women were attracted to white men. Apparently though, they are only attracted to "good" looking white men. Not surprisingly, Douglas' shovel-face didn't exactly stir up the sensual juices in the apathetic females whom he passed.

He returned to his seat after his bodily flood irrigation. But during his venture--walking fro the lavatory, he glanced into the snake pit that the Deceivers call, "economic class". Doug looked at the poor souls with pity, and for a moment wished that those innocent passengers were not forced to sit amidst screaming children and un-deodorized natives. Mementos in memory are terribly hard to recall, as one only quickly ponders the thought before quickly disposing of it. Such is the case with Doug's sympathy towards the ones who sold their collective soul for a discount boarding pass. He outstretched his hand, waved to the passing (and absent mindedly smiling) mid-western American stewardess and asked her to shut the curtains to economy class. Thus the inconvenient portal to the world of depravity was forever sealed; both world changed, and neither world truly finding a sense of joy.

The plane teetered and swayed, rolling in a rhythmic flow, as if the strength and fullness of the moon itself was rocking it along it's predestined course. Douglas, after being quite sick of the infinite deep blue both beside and below the view of his window, placed a black sleeping mask over his eyes and drifted to sleep.

Douglas awoke the next morning to see to his right, a Guatemalan lady awkwardly sleeping, curled away from him. He then realized his subconsciously flailing arms were resting onto of her stomach. What dream could he possibly be having that would persuade his conduit of a body to grope an unsuspecting Guatemalan? He shuttered to think about it, removed his hand from her tensed body and shoves his hands in-between the seat; almost as if to overcompensate for his recent embarrassment.

Stewardesses walked past, to and fro, showing off their wares before his eyes. Doug's cup holder was up, signaling to the underpaid slaves that he would take whatever they would be willing to give him. Sacks of assorted nuts, cups of whisky, bottles of wine. Flying is a very modest and comforting form of transportation--for those in the right class, anyways.

Thank you for reading! Please leave your comments and suggestions. Chapter 2 and subsequent chapters will be uploaded with all swiftness!

Publication Date: 11-09-2011

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