My skin caught fire

When flaming kisses

Sent me up in a blazing flash

How was I to know

The heat of your desire

Would turn all that defines me

Into molten ash.

The swivelled metal in this compass remains pointless,

while seas twixt us are becalmed.

The horizon in you eye is boundless,

When the gun in your mouth are unarmed.

The treasure you seek ever hidden will be, if all of your charts stay unlearned.

And what use is a place to sail home to once free, if all of your bridges are burned?

PROLOGUE

Journal entry Professor Rachel Askham 28 May 2014

I have been intrigued by the findings at Smithridge University school of Mythology it seems they have been interested in funding research for anyone who can piece together a story from some evidence that they have had in their archives for over fifty years:

I. Birth certificate of male Louis George Iolaus Hermes Fitzroy. Born: April 29th, 1696 London. Father unknown.

II. Nautical map and coordinates Spain circa 1689

The documents listed above were also found with the enclosed parchments and papers, which were located in a chest hidden behind a rotting book panel of a sunken ship called ‘The Hell Star’. They were excavated and examined by marine archaeologists and are said to be a collection of accounts from diaries, ships log entries and letters.  

All the documents were neatly pleated into a jewelled box bound by ribbon and Cedar bark, which itself was sealed with a type of red wax indented with small semi-precious heart-shaped black stone and a coil of bright orange tightly curled hair that biologists say has the cellular base of fish protein.

Big Water

Slave ships sail for a very long time, and they sail so far from where you were born that you start to forget who you are.

She let the current take her down her eyes shut against its salt. Her arms did not flail with confusion, composed and harpoon-like she zipped back to the surface, bubbles streaming... 

​

I remember seeing a slanted smile like an invite

That ruined my date night

Your lips at my neck, sealing our fate tight

All that time ago.

How ironic the date line,

now separates yours from mine.

And? we no longer want to reap 

what we tried to sow.

We could not survive me yawning at the midday

dreaming of what you'd say,

as you were blinking open those eyes,

still sparkling from The Sandman's touch.

Yet I can't help thinking if I live forever and still knew nothing, 

Then I know this much:

If she were to appear in my present, however tense

The kissing from that smile would still be sublime

And I would stop missing her chosen erstwhile, 

Trapped, as I am, in British summertime.

​

I caught your words as they tumbled from your mouth.

My hands cupping each syllable as they warmed to their touch

I brought them to my lips and tasted their almond meaning.

Closing my eyes, as I breathe their heavy scent.

These words are all I have now and may be all I need.

Except? What will I do when the words you have spoken

become as thin as rice paper

melting in brittle defiance of my want to keep them whole.

What if your words begin to burn me, branding me with their flaming existence

Cooling only when I whisper;

Stop. Talking.

​

Southerly I sail.

Timber tested by a salty adversary.

Compass tricked by belligerent winds.

This silk is filled with a push toward belonging.

No rest for this anchor, till I reach your shore.

Will you be waiting, arms like a beacon?

Guiding me into your harbour heart.

Or are you faithless, a captive to impatience

Lain with another twixt the sheets which you would shroud our buried love.

Who in the hell designed the lighting for this godforsaken dilapidated pile?

I have to walk all the way across to the switch I now no longer need to illuminate the evilly shadowed horror film set of a landing I have just negotiated to get to the toilet. Flicking it on anyway, I turn to see my exasperation rewarded by the technicolour glory of the coat hook that almost gouged my eye, the disembowelling handrail, the shuddering cobwebs and the jutting base of a wood-wormed grandfather clock which took my toes, prisoner. I note the switch for the bathroom is outside the room in a bid to stop electrocution but what false sense of security is this after my journey to get here?

I leave both lights on.

Returning in a sulk; this is not romantic.

The four poster bed looks like it would turn against me softly suffocating my last breath in velvet folds.

You are laughing, teasing.

Do I seem churlish?

I don't mean to be, darling, it's just my age dictates clean lines and an ensuite, so I do not even have to think about leaving the room.

You must understand; when you have to put all your clothes back on to venture into the gloom? Only to have your foot wrangled in the dark, by an antique timepiece. It kind of kills the mood.

I promise I've got over my period drama phase.

Can we stay at the Hyatt next time?