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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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Forsaken, the crew awaited news from the people below. At noon they gathered at the helm. The device was on. They leaned into it, their ears pressed against the auricular, and heard nothing. Stomachs rumbled—Robert mistook the rumbling for the burning of coal, but he was quickly shushed and corrected. By midnight only five remained. The rest had gone below. The five at the helm waited for news, but heard nothing, not even rumbling stomachs. (Lunch had been served at two: braised goose, Pop Tarts, fettuccini.) Robert expressed anger, and also (at eight) renewed hunger. He was shushed and reprimanded. They waited, ears close to the auricular on the device, and developed theories. The theories: (1) The device was working, else at least one person
from the crew would have returned and asked if they
had not heard him, the person returning, speaking
through the device—maybe shouting. Maybe even
gesticulating, as many do when on the telephone, for
no practical reason. But something was keeping them—what it was, nobody knew. But:
(2) The device was not working, else they would have
heard some sign of it at work. Regardless, as in (1),
some force kept them below. So:
(3) The crew below were playing a practical joke on
those above. Ha ha. Though of course it was probably
terrifically funny once down there—you were "in the
know" the minute you descended. Were there not
muffled chuckles heard through the device? Alas,
there were not. But the device could have been
temporarily disconnected. Ha ha. And the forsaken
crew above—only three remained—would be forced
to consider theoreticals (1a) - (3a), much to the
delectation and hooting of those below. Also maybe:
Forsaken, the three awaited news. Robert complained, and panicked, and said he was going down there. To which the other two said, Whatever, fine, do what you will. But he was just bluffing, the coward. They reached shore and contacted the maritime authorities. The authorities boarded the ship. They were never seen again. More authorities boarded, also never to be seen again. Nobody has since gone into the bowels of the ship. All passageways leading downwards have been sealed. Its helm (with the device intact, functioning or not) is open to the public on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from nine to five, two dollars for adults, one dollar for children, free for children under two. Photographs are allowed but not encouraged. Most, when photographed, lean into the device, ears against the auricular. "Hello?" they say in jest. If the crew and authorities are still down there, and the device is functioning from their end, that's all they hear: Hello, hello, hello. Hello, anybody there? Hello?
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
Reviews of Friends' Stories and Anecdotes, Part III By Christina Nunez Imaginary Dialogues By Francis Heaney Periodic Table of the Elementary School By Alysia Gray Painter John Hodgman, Professional Literary Agent, Has Not Forsaken His Young Cousin, the Aspiring Writer Known Only as "Josh," but Read Below for Important News of His Professional Status, and Learn With Him the Painful Lesson of The Lycanthrope's Niece. By John Hodgman I Write Short Books About the Popular Bands of the Day. Here Is My Story. By Catherine Zymet |
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