These hands on the steering wheel. Rictus grip on unyielding leather.
You’ve been down here for some time now. No trawlermen, milkmaids or merfolk responding to cries. Oxygen bubbles pushing against the lifelessness of life.
It is said bells might sound; some portal to another world. Seaweed drifts past; the silver flash of piscine intrigue for a second; one glimpse, then gone.
Only the dead have been watching you this week. Behind the monitor, a tapping glow. Somedays you wondered if those conspiracy theorists were right and you yourself were becoming robotized, brainwashed; melded to your screen and sucked down; nullified by ELFs and the CIA.
Further now. The engine lifeless, gurgling of air escaping the hidden corners.
Feathers found in unexpected places; signifying intervention: explaining nothing. That which is hidden is found again.
Only the firstborn stand on the edge of this bridge. Only the last of the line will jump. Wedding belles.
Through blackest glimmer of ocean’s gloom, those who jump this night seek to reshuffle the night sky. A stopwatch reset and flipped upside down. Stars spinning back to the start. Begin the human race again, only this time, do not cheat.
Out of pools, amoeba. and then dinosaurs. You forget what came next. An ouroboros of answers. The line has ended.
The second of silence before the hit; before the subterranean impacts with the still-breathing species and swallows it down forever.
Only a dream. Only reality. A hand clawing at a window, waiting to be let out.
We are swimming with the dead this week. Waiting to be born again.