Adrift in the endless rivers as I’ve been my whole life, it’s rhythm is constant and unending. My home, the stout boat, has been in the family for generations since we fled from the land as the water rose. Now, as the last of my line, I sail the waters looking for others like me. I wonder if I have a future, if I’ll meet a woman to love and live the rest of my life with. I’m not sure now though how likely it is I’ll find anyone else, we are spread too thin across this vast, flooded globe.
As likely as I might be the last of my kind there is poor Sebastian, my cat and companion, who might be the last of his. He swims for fish in the waters and sometimes I fear I’ll lose him in the current. If he could only talk we’d be having conversations but instead I’m going mad talking to photos of those I’ve lost. He’s always there when I need him though, his soft purring lulling me to sleep as we stop at anchor.
With all the time to fill I started drawing on the boat with charcoal from my fires, I let it wash away at first but I’ve learnt that the varnish holds it there forever like paint. It’s hard to resist, thinking about death as I always do, having a legacy, a fruit of my endeavours that might remain when I have gone.
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