“They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.”
~ Gordon Lightfoot, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”

*** JOIN US THURSDAY, JULY 22ND @ 6PM SLT FOR THE RELAUNCH OF THE FREUDIAN SLIP LIVE MUSIC VENUE. GRACE MCDUNNOUGH WILL TAKE THE FIRST BLUSH OFF THE COMPASS ROSE, FOLLOWED BY LYNDON HEART WHO’LL KEEP GETTIN’ IT ALL DIRTY WITH BOY COOTIES AFTER HER @ 7PM SLT. DO NOT MAKE US COME GET YOU. WE’RE PIRATES; WE’VE GOT LIQUOR AND SWORDS. http://slurl.com/secondlife/Seven%20Veils/44/127/26 ***

The Wreck of the SS Freudian Slip

It was oft whispered in the ports that dared allow them harbor, that the rag-tag coterie was doomed, being as they were steered by the obvious runt of the litter. Still, the winds generously billowed the sails full, the tides of wet goddesses rocked and cradled their passage, and there was progress toward some manner of destination, even if none were sure where such a journey might end. Fortune, of course, never leans too far too long in any one direction, but the idle comfort of a string of luck led them like children toward a sense of entitlement that the fates could not resist rolling against them.

The endless days of sun-beamed arcs bouncing off the rolling waves eventually led to sea blindness and a peculiar madness of false vision began to infect the crew. The only sanity that clung between the margins of the voyage came when the moon escorted the stars across the velvet midnight, blocking out the charlatan mirages that danced like ghosts on the spray. The artful dodgers of the bevy recognized the need to dispel the mounting tension, and trespassed down into the hold, returning with tapped casks of rum, whiskey, amontillado — all the others could hope to distract from the tedious delirium of the every day drudge.

No one was certain who heard the first lilting note, but it was not long until they were all awash in awe and wonder.

It was the Siren; her call vibrated across the distance like the kiss of a forgotten lover, passion-trapped within a bottle and finally able to wrest the cork from her stained glass prison bars. She called to them in ways none had ever heard, nor could they put words to all she inspired as they huddled against the masts and rigging, straining for some vision, some shadow that might quench the thirsts no spirits could sate. Secret and distant, she denied them, calling from the inky dark, and from the salty air itself, taunting and luring, drawing them closer. Closer. Closer.

When she tired, or perhaps when the Mistress moon merely tricked her back into her bottle, the troubadour replaced her honey-soaked verses with the crafty skills and pleasures of his trade. Familiar chanteys and rarely-heard canticles wove a patchwork spell, stitched from the same siren cloth which swaddled the lot of them into the stupors of drunken revelry. Unable to contain the need to catch the power of the rattle and hum, some dove into the unforgiving waters, arm over arm, flailing toward the echos that meshed, interlaced, plaited together like the sinuous coils of raw hemp that flanked the decks.

Before long, the very planks and rigging seemed to rein themselves toward the unknown cove of haunted songs.

The water-logged pages of the journal end there, leaving us to merely speculate about the fate of the SS Freudian Slip. Some say she made a cold, early grave of the briny floor at the edges of the world. Others spin wild tales of a treasure cove where the ancient faces of kings carved in stone and brightly painted totems hold court amid a lush and living landscape. But the story traded most often over mugs of foamy-headed ales casts the crew as the enchanted captives of a pair of pirate specter bards, tethered to the wreckage and rocks that serve as brig and stage; entangled forever by roots and tendrils none can sever.

Some Thursday nights, when the unsuspecting pass too close to those waves and rocks, the echos spill out over still waters, and just as twilight coaxes the horizon to accept the weight of the sunset back within its shimmering embrace, comes the intoxicating lullaby of Her.

And if you stand upon the deck long enough, the blanket of night will wash brilliant with color as He follows, melting the wick into the depths of the wax and daring those who hear to lean just a little closer for one more song.