Fantastic Metropolis

On the 25^th I nearly occasioned the merciless power and the saga of having failed. By material storm, and very ghastly seams betwixt the night and much snow, I can speak after burial, returning in tatters. But the skin of my intent being impenetrable mass of voyage, could throw the most delicious wind and water. But lifting the sea ice forced morning. The watch tried to keep warm as prospects are. In the constant fog, I must first go missing; the remaining considerable surface experience can form light.

4^th December. I have drowned. This island can, these mountains may, occur. Yet stream, rise over headlong, gladdening sight. I sent Victory. That ship resembling a fog, and—as if over those gulfs snow was visible—thoughtless, of course, innate goodness is. London fog, nothing. At midnight the hazard. By nine into the ship, I the sea. Odd was this unusual exertion, escape, not perforated with small selves contrived, chimney-sweepers. And now I spread out upon the heavens. Above the Fog who ruled me. The great and difficult conditions (through which passed a little habitation, clothes on our beds and the fire, and fitted cakes and loaves of light) cannot replace the bay, mighty reply. Accordingly, the wind had greatly turned from earth to bed. I perceived winter of absolute home. If men who were the dark, did sink down so soon in snow, completely to preserve them, wind should come to endure these extremities of ballast.

Northerly, it were asked why bones like a glove commanded this boat, paralyzed, ceasing is nothing to up again. The means by which we remember that fear though remained. We supposed everything except quantity of broken scene. Whilst the wind forced it crashing dry. We selected like wolves. Whatever value either to hope—there was none; the full effects now fell behind us. In the evening we waste, under the delight. The extraordinary great sea burnt into its caprices, and scorched upon sails. I most of exultation, I very curious about many dangers, uncertain when aground, verily believe that the horizon complete our why everywheres; in waking the best I could, from the be very right.

Wendy Walker is the author of The Secret Service, a fantastic espionage novel, and two collections of tales, The Sea-Rabbit, or, The Artist of Life and Stories Out of Omarie (Sun and Moon Press). “Olaudah Equiano Crosses the Ice” will appear in My Man and Other Critical Fictions, forthcoming from Green Integer. Her most recent book, Blue Fire: Confessing Constance Kent, is a poetic/visual dossier on the famous 19^th century murder case that inspired the first examples of the “sensation novel” and “true crime.” She lives in New York City with her husband, the writer Tom La Farge.