Shriek, or The Scream of Nature

Where am I?

Standing on a wooden walkway, beside a wooden railing which separates me from the ceaseless water. But where does this lead? Am I on a pier or a walking along a bridge?

Some distance behind me, two figures lurk in shadow. Cowboys, by the shape of their hats. Why do they linger so? I cannot tell if they are looking at me or if they face away, looking out to the roiling ocean. Have they come from the two boats which rest on the water, out by a circle in the sea? Perhaps that lighter shade of sea is a whirlpool and the strangers gape in mesmerised frustration as their vessels are being pulled inexorably to the watery depths.

Beyond the doomed boats, the horizon rises in curves to meet a bizarre sky. Streaks of orange and yellow and crimson undulate, hiding the sun in an attempt to disguise the eye I know is watching me. An eye free of pupil and iris, yet still it bears witness to my terror.

For all of these reasons, and for myriad others, I have to loose my feelings with non-verbal emotion. I place my long hands beside my face, clutching my misshapen head from chin to bald head. The roundness of my blank eyes match the circle of my mouth as my body ripples and I…