we are all sheep.
A Thousand Sea Still
I write this sitting in the middle of my own fear: the great vast ocean. And oh yes, I cannot write for the life of me, me and my trembling fingers.
The great storm rolls over us, pounding away at the past which happened to be six minutes ago. Mimsy is coughing up water, and I am soaking wet. Yes, the middle of the ocean is a terrible thing to be in when you’re twelve years old and you have nobody but an unconscious friend for the time being.
Now I suppose a twelve-year-old knows nothing of how to write a book, let alone how to start it or end it. It’s not a diary, it’s a memoir so if I die perhaps the fishes will read my tale. I start writing early because it takes years to publish books, and I want everyone to know this story.
It’s a true story, or as true as stories get because writing is not easy when you have motion sickness just by looking down. Makes me so queasy.
I do not know what to tell you, or how to tell you why I am in the middle of my greatest fear—if you are to read this book one day, I guess I should tell you how everything happened.
It began three years ago and I am still getting used to it—our world is as screwed as screwed can be and all our hope has been taken to the stars. Literally, the people who could leave did on those huge rocketships and left the rest of humanity to clean up their mess. That’s how it is, one human makes a mess and the world ends up paying for it.
And so as our condition worsened, the world had nothing else to do but sit there and take it, so the storms began happening more and more often and the world’s weather pattern was ruined. Snow fell in deserts, the Amazon dried up, the waterfalls froze over. It rained non-stop in the tundra region, and there’s always a raging storm at the sea. Islands became rare because the ocean claimed then and multiple coasts around the world.
But of course nothing makes sense right now, that’s just a piece of the story. So let me get all the boring facts of my life out of the way:
-My father is a biologist
-We moved to this island three years ago, before the outbreak of terror
-It was temporary and we were to move back to New York within a year
-Then we were informed that we couldn’t leave because nobody could make it out of the lagoon without their boat crashing
-We were stuck on this wretched island where volcanoes would explode while it snowed, it was hail while there were typhoons, and it was sunny when the storms touched our coast.
-I still hold this against my father no matter what
So now, I guess I must tell you why I am in a boat, past the lagoon, the only one to escape the wrath of the sea with one of my friends, surrounded by jagged rocks and laughing seals by the bay.
Actually, I think I’d rather not say, it’s quite a terribly boring tale but since there’s nothing to do in this boat but sleep, pray, and hope, I guess telling you much of anything can’t hurt more than the stinging gnash in my cheek.
Oh yeah, that’s not from the storm, it’s actually from the shark.
How would you start a book like this?
How could you tell a story like mine?
Maybe with—

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