This week ’s concept art is“Ostridge Submersible”byTucker Cullinan , who kindly propose this piece for the writing prompt . Have an inspiring piece of art you ’d wish to partake in ? Feel free toemail mewith your suggestions .
Most drivers ransack off their sunsuits as before long as they mistreat into the cockpit , but I always wait until the Ostridge Submersible has plunged its head beneath the H2O . As I peel the gauze back from my skin , it ’s like immerse myself into a nerveless bath , and every inch of my derma seems to thirst for the sunlight dribble through the bluing . And no matter how many ablution a pilot perform before sitting in the equipment driver ’s seat , the mister will fire , cleansing any sweat and dust from our facial expression . For the first few week on the Book of Job , I was offended by the automatic spritz of water , as if TuckerCorp consider Earth’s surface denizen could n’t wash . But after spending so many workdays staring into the immaculate dwellings beneath the sea , I gain that , while the waterfolk might tolerate the roughness of the people who still lived under the sun , the one thing they would not tolerate was dirt .
When I signed on to drive a motorcoach for TuckerCorp , I ’d hoped to get myself assigned to a Plesiosaur , a luxury liner where I ’d drop months at a fourth dimension underwater , feeling the gentle beat of current and dodge the occasional thick sea volcano . I imagined that I ’d expend my off minute watching the deepfolk , deck in coral and bead , their eubstance lean and healthy from a unbendable dieting of fish and kelp , and occasionally regaling some wide - eyed innocent with tales of my hard - scrabble surface living . But I ’d only scored in the sixty - third centile , and that qualified me for a commuter train chore , a mere ten hour a twenty-four hours in paradise before I ’d have to recall to my on a regular basis scheduled life .
It intend I never saw my passengers , never watch the people who day in and out filled the belly of my brute . The only masses I saw were through the windows , spectral shadows acting out their liveliness in pantomime .
There was one such specter , though , whose apparition I looked forward to on each round . I turned the corner into the Verdant District , where moss-grown immature works clung to every surface and danced outwards , gift the impression that the building were resonate , and there she was , tiny against the sublime window .
I did n’t know her name , but I call off her La Lune .
Her skin was swart and pale , as if it was supposed to be dark but had never gotten the chance . Her features were round , her lips full . Ringlets of black haircloth looked always wet , and today they spilled over a silver shimmy . Every prison term I saw her , she was crouched on the ground , reading a tablet , but every metre she saw me , she laid it at her foot and stand , press her hands and olfactory organ against the shabu .
My grandmere said there were women like this beneath the waters , women who spent their integral biography in leisure , hear from books instead of toil for squawk grubs or aid to peddle the champaign generator . Grandmere said they were silent cleaning lady , women who rarely had the chance to use their own spokesperson .
I suppose if I could have heard her voice , I would have dash myself upon her window . I would have get the waters flood into my cockpit and her home just for the chance to hold her in my arms .
I guide the Ostridge as close to her window as I could , letting my heart satisfy hers . Then , a brainsick thought seize me , and I tugged the wheel just a little too far to the left . I mean the glass of my cockpit and the glass of her windowpane would make a diminutive celebratory gaol when they tapped against one another , but or else it was a thud followed by an urgent screeching . La Lune ’s eyes widened , and my dash explode with warning light . I reached my script out and touched the place where the two piece of spyglass met before righting the Ostridge and continuing on my route .
An hour subsequently , when I made my next pass of the Verdant District , La Lune was go from the window . But the scratch line I ’d made in the spyglass was still there .
FictionSubmarine
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