The Lonely

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The water directly below the surface is the most welcoming. This affable appearance invites those above to carelessly indulge in what the ocean believes it has to offer. Nevertheless, it remains only a veil. The veil separates two worlds; that which is visible, and that which is not. One cannot exist without the other, but out of the pair, an individual is given more attention and value than the other.

Alas, while the unseen is rich in biodiversity, it is a cavernously ominous mystery to the world. It looms above the heads of those who dare to look, while it merely intimidates those who do not care. The surface waters are far more pleasant, and easier to understand. What lies on the surface is the easiest to obtain, the easiest to read, the easiest to access.

So it should be able to be said with no surprise at all that the depths of the ocean are home to far more things than we ever dreamed possible. But it should also be said, with no surprise, that these things do not remain in the unseen parts of the world forever.

She never thought it possible before, you know. Helena Albertsen hated things that were not fact. She possessed the mind of a scientist, in that she needed to have proof behind every claim made to her. Yet despite all this, she had never been able to resist a good story. And most ironically, her favorite genre happened to be fiction. The same woman that constantly made hypotheses in her mind while simultaneously proving them correct or false was one of the most avid readers of complete fantasy. Perhaps she enjoyed escaping from a world that required answers to a world that lacked the necessity of being sensical. But reading them was not enough. She would scribe away on her typewriter like the only thing separating her from the ink on the page was how many letters she could type in a minute. Her writing was private, but it breathed. The words were her sighs of relief after a long day at work, her tears after a tragic event, and the smile on her lips after meeting an old friend for coffee.

She sometimes wrote her own stories, but more often than not she wrote old stories and implemented her own twist to them. Sometimes these stories were passed down through generations, and as the family line tapered off she captured the spoken words as they escaped from the mouths of their knowers. She gently placed them on paper, despite the will of the stories to remain free of such a permanent residence. The stories had changed and adapted to each of their tellers, and to be forever recorded in one, unchanging form was simply barbaric to them.

Miss Albertsen was an electrical engineer. She constantly sought for advancement in her field, but it was never enough. She had been working in the same area for twenty-six years. But as long as it paid the bills, and she could have time to herself at the end of the day, she was okay with it.

The moon hung above her house, full and bright on the night this story takes place. Helena found herself asleep at the moment, her short black hair bunched up against the table on which her head rested. Perhaps it was the way the light hit her skin as we joined her, or perhaps it was the ripple of the water that night. For whatever reason at all, her head snapped up, taking with it a small piece of paper virgin to pen, pencil, and ink, but exposed to slumbering drool. A glance outside revealed to her a confirmation in her assumption that it was late in the evening, and that she had been one of the many who populated the world of the sleeping. She longed to return to this world, but a lulling tug kept her consciousness from slipping into dreams. Restless and feeling alone, Helena stood and left her desk, that night's story resting on the typewriter unfinished.

Her coat was warm and worn, and her shoes were comfortable but dirty. Resolving that there were no people to impress in the outside at the time, she slipped the items on and stepped through the doorway, heading to the beach. The brisk night air hit her as she left the confines of her home, the lingering perfume of salt and backyard grills hanging around her with the stubbornness of a mule. The ground beneath the soles of her shoes slowly transitioned from gravel to sand, though this process crept along at the pace of grass growing. Nevertheless, Helena's gaze remained fixed on this rather tedious and dull predicament. Had she looked up, she would have spotted the curious creature that sat upon one of the jagged rocks near the shore. It wasn't until the water lapped at the toes of her boots that Helena bothered to bring her dark brown eyes from the ground.