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They say every rule on a ship is a memorial to a dead sailor. A drunk boatswain falls overboard? No drinking above decks. An unlucky swab blows a crate of blackpowder? No smoking in the hold. These are good rules. They stop tragedies from becoming habits. A chance for the living to salvage lessons from the wreckage of a death and pass them on. On the ship of the dead, things work differently. Our vessel is crewed by those taken in accidents. Fallen overboard or blasted into oblivion, we sail the seas, looking for release from our regrets. We, too, have rules: Don‘t wait to tell someone you love them. Never cast off without saying farewell. Don’t leave joy for tomorrow. Through these rules, we are given time to sail to the ports we held dearest and see the ones we loved most. The ones we should have said this to every day. The ones we want to learn from our mistakes. These are good rules. They stop habits from becoming tragedies. A chance for the dead to salvage lessons from the wreckage of a life and pass them on. Remember them, little one, even if you should forget me as you grow up. Because on the ship of the dead, every rule is a memorial to a sailor who once lived, who once loved. And when the blackpowder went off, I did not think of death or loss or regret. I thought only of you. This was last May 2021's story for Postcards From the Future subscribers and yes, obviously I cried the whole time while writing it.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Alwi Alaydrus
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