Fine Bottle of Brandy

The sea seemed to dance to the voices of the wind. The waves rose and fell, clashed into each other with tumultuous laughter. It was hard to make out the little boat caught in this celebration of elements. It rocked dangerously but the man inside didn't seem to notice or to care. He had lost his paddles and sat in the middle of the boat, seemingly unnerved. It was only a small fisher's boat he was in and it seemed even smaller when compared to the endless sea around him.


John looked up to the sky and laughed. He had never seen the sky like this. It was dark, with here and there a light gleam breaking through the dark clouds. He knew it wasn't night yet, but he felt surrounded by an impossible darkness. He looked at his useless legs. He didn't even recognize them as being real legs. For why would he call them legs if they did not do what legs do: walk? He took another swig from the brandy bottle.

Suddenly a large wave overtook the boat. For a short moment that seemed so much longer, the boat had gone. When it resurfaced John was gone. Had he been swallowed by the gorging water? Suddenly a hand surfaced that grabbed onto the reel of the boat. For a moment it seemed that the boat would capsize but Fate seemed to pity John and the waves became calmer. John's head emerged from the black sea and he gasped. His other hand found it's way to the surface, still firmly gripping the brandy bottle.
'Damn it, that's one fine bottle of brandy ruined!'