Post From The Perch — by Storm

Post From The Perch


It is 1:07 a.m. and I see their tails switching at me from high in the corner of the ceiling. My eyes decipher their communications in the tiny glow of this midnight room. There they are, Hilda, Elna, Brigitte-au-fauz. My Viking Head comrades. Come to visit me in this new, mundane, very plain apartment. 800 years later.

I knew they would come. I have been waiting.

Norwegian wind is like an ocean current — it carries things in from all over the world. Freezing, and at its most powerful at the bar of the Fillia river. Broaching the ocean on a back side gale, I am perched on the VIking Ship Head — which is carved into the poisonous and provocative wife of Ugaltha, God of Strong Nets.

My white fir blasts upward in a thousand slivers of ice off the drumming sea rolls. I point my nose into the lee spray. Elna seduces the muscled roap master. Hilda scolds her. And Brigitte – au – faux tells us that soon one day we shall all be in Spain. A land that has yet to discover our eternal powers … And there we shall learn to eat beef. New. Odd. But if it is prized; we shall.

What is this off the starboard bow? …It is My Miss. She stumbles into the apartment living room, barely awake. My yeowls to the row master have roused her from her sleep. She snags a toe in the hem of her pajamas and turns on a lamp. My tail twitches to Brigitte. My Miss thinks my winking eyes are to reassure her I am allright. They are, in fact, keeping the salt spray from dilluting my vision as I direct the boat across the bar.

“To Spain!” I nod and wink to Brigitte, as the living room lamp goes off and intrigue ignites the ship’s sails to full brim.




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