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Pangarker, Widaad - [SS] Day of the Whales [v1.0]_files/image001.jpgPangarker, Widaad - [SS] Day of the Whales [v1.0]_files/image002.jpgPangarker, Widaad - [SS] Day of the Whales [v1.0]_files/image003.jpgPangarker, Widaad - [SS] Day of the Whales [v1.0]_files/image004.jpga N.E.R.D's Release.txtA N.E.R.D's Release

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From Alfred Something Wicked SF & Horror #6 May 2008 .txtA N.E.R.D's Release

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Pangarker, Widaad - [SS] Day of the Whales [v1.0].htm

DAY OF THE WHALES

by Widaad Pangarker

illustrated by Hendrik Gericke

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

The whales beachedthe day he walked into town. We shouldve known then, but what did we know ofsigns? To us it was just another notch on the belt of desperation. What wesought was a miracle, and it arrived in the shape of a dark Gipsy at 6:07 on ateeth-chattering winter morning.

* * * *

The town is situatedon a coast frequented by whales, and tourists would ascend the place to catch aglimpse of the magnificent beasts. There was a singular beauty about thewhales, and people were always in awe on their first real sighting of one. Youdhear it reflected in their voicesthey couldnt comprehend how such hugecreatures could sing and dance under and atop the crashing waves so gracefully.The town flourished, whilst maintaining its sleepy seaside village charm. Soonthere were not many open plots left, as holiday houses and bed and breakfastswere germinating all over the little place. Most of the locals viewed the earlydevelopments with much suspicion and a sprinkle of xenophobia, but with thedevelopment came opportunity and money. These were luxuries relatively unknownto us, and most welcome. We began to look forward to whale season, and whateversmall businesses we had, we worked towards this time of year, reaping as manybenefits as we could hope to. Where previously the whales were just part ofnature around us, we now had a deeper appreciation of them. They were ourcelebrities, and we their agents. Although sometimes Maxwell, or Bang-bang aswe dubbed him, would argue that it was the other way around.

* * * *

Bang-bang was anantagonist by nature, not choice. Having the sea as his tempestuous lover mightmake any man grumpy. We never really knew how he earned his living, but whetherhe was gesticulating to the ocean or the heavens, he always drew a crowd. Andso Bang-bang became known as the whale crier. Whatever it was that transpiredbetween him and the deep blue, Bang-bang seemed to have developed his ownlanguage. None of us could really understand what he was on about half of thetime, and for the most part even when he was deep in conversation, it seemedas if he wasnt really talking to anybody in particular. In fact, if one wereto estimate a guess, it would be that he was talking to his stormy mistress.What was slightly disturbing about that, was that old Bang-bang was perfectlysane. He walked around with his old postmans bag, protecting it as though itcontained all the important secrets of the world. Those of us whod heard aboutthem, suspected he was a switch, but we never knew for certain. Bang-bang alsohad a mangy mutt that looked as ancient as his owner and followed himeverywhere, howling along when his master was in talks with the invisiblestranger. Bang-bang could very well have been the first person to set foot intown. No one could recall if he was ever young, and that included octogenarianMrs October, whod lived with a varying number of oriental cats in thetumbled-down Silver Oaks flat on Main Road all her life. She never ventured outmuch. Her life was cloistered in four walls after her husband died countlessyears ago. Mrs October didnt feel the change in tide that suddenly hit thetown. Not like the rest of us.

Nobody knew exactlyhow it happened, and even now, were still trying to complete the puzzle. Butif we remember anything, then we remember the coming of the storms. It didnttake me too long to settle into the quiet life around me. I had anticipated itto be more tumultuous but eight years down the line I was a local. Mostly.

* * * *

For a seaside town,we had a fairly moderate climate: cold in winter, warm in summer, but nothingexceptional either way. Pleasant comes to mind. But that changed, overnight,I think. That was the year the whales were late. That was the year the touristsleft. The storms lasted for two months, without respite. Howling would be aromantic notion of it. Roofs were lifted off like Tupperware lids, walls cavedin like wet cardboard. We couldnt get to work or school, because even if theroads werent flooded, with cars afloat, there was hardly any school orworkplace left undamaged. So we sat, huddled masses, inside whomevers houseswere brave enough to stand tall against the vicious monsters tongue. We sat,held hostage, and waited. For two months. And we got sick, broken and diseased,and some dying. For two months. Rescue workers couldnt reach us via air, landor sea without they themselves needing rescue. On the twenty-seventh day, weheard what sounded like a foreign-language broadcast outside our doors.Children ran to the barred windows shouting:

Bang-bangs in aboat! Bang-bangs in a boat!

While people werelosing limbs and life, Bang-bang must finally have lost his mind. The oldcritter was rowing around the flooded streets with loudspeaker in hand, spewingforth indecipherable proclamations.

Hi yee! Hi yee! Sangtay seez com. Hi yee! Bang-bang shouted to any who would listen, or maybe onceagain to Heaven and Sea.

Maybe it was theclimate we found ourselves in, but something inside me felt like it was awarning from the whale crier. What more could go wrong? I ignored the fearslithering in my stomach on hearing Bang-bangs foreboding tone, and dismissedthe old man as having one fish too few in his rapidly unraveling net. It didnthelp that he was blowing on his conch, which wed never heard before. It wasalmost as though hed been waiting for the right, or wrong, moment to use it.Blowing like his life depended on it. Being holed up with 14 people in a housethat wasnt mine, it sounded like a warning bell announcing the end of theworld. I assured myself that everything was just heightened, wrapped up inmelodrama. There was nothing to worry about. We were just weathering a reallyterrifying storm, I reassured myself, falling into the comfort of this tooshall pass.

* * * *

On the 62nd day thehowling fled. On the 62nd day seven whales beached. On the 62nd day He walkedinto town. Walked, we assume. Bang-bang was the first person to see him arrive.

* * * *

The water hadmiraculously dried up. We should have felt like hippies on LSD, dreaming up theapocalypse. Dreaming up the storm. What was dry before the storm was dry afterthe storm. Those of us less-wounded stood outside and breathed in for whatseemed a brief eternity. Wed forgotten the feel of fresh air in our lungs. Wecarried the injured and ailing out to join in our relief. I opened my eyesafter absorbing almost enough sun, and looked around. The people, hobbling outof their modern caves, mirrored the buildings around them. Shattered and tornand mostly in ruin, with anything able to reflect now gone. We looked likeconfused ghosts, wandering through a town without people. The brutal air wasfilled only with the sound of breathing. How could so many people be so silent?

In slow motion, andby mass volition, we made our exodus to the waters edge. And there we sawthem.

And them.

It was 6:07 am. Sevenwhales were moaning and flailing heavily in the sand, with no idea how to getback in the water. They were huge, unnaturally so. And then we saw somethingwhich none of us can ever forget. Something that still makes me tremble everytime I recall it.

* * * *

Standing atop thethird beached whale, in a voice filled with rage, Bang-bang was holding whatlooked like a saw to the whales skin and cutting into it with all his might.If we didnt know his voice and strange speak that well, we would never haveguessed who the blood-soaked person was. He had clambered up via a ricketyladder leaning against the whale.

Elyoo! Ways low!Ways low! Be! Elyoo Sang tay! Ways low! Wowt! Wowt Sang tay! the whale slayershouted.

We stared in frozenhorror, as blood streamed with warm viscosity down the whales writhing body,and splattered up and onto the sand. I looked at Bang-bangs face, shaking myhead in shocked disbelief, and followed his line of vision. He wasnt indiscussion with the sea or the heavens or even his victims. He was spitting hisgarbled words at the stranger standing by the second whale, and the strangerwas talking back in Bang-bang tongue. My horror had slowly turned intoconfusion as I watched this surreal exchange. The first and second whale seemedto have suffered the same fate under Bang-bangs hand as the third one was nowexperiencing. They both lay in pools of their own thick blood, but the firstone had no wounds. The dense flesh wasnt ripped open and slashed like theother two. In fact, it looked as if she was slowly getting back to the water.The stranger had his hands on the second bleeding whale, which was making themost noise of all, as if protesting against the hands lain upon him. By allaccounts, the whale being hacked by Bang-bang was the most content. At first Ithought perhaps she was already dead, but her heavy breathing was still veryvisible. I couldnt see what the stranger was doing with the whale, besidesputting his hands on the wounds, but on second inspection, it was clear that hewasnt talking to Bang-bang. Bizarre as it all appeared, he was talking to thewhale. And the whale wasnt liking it. Not making any decent sense of thepicture unfolding in front of me, I looked at the first whale again. She wassealed up. Thats the only way I could describe what I saw. Like a siliconeseal minus the silicone. Stitches minus the thread. There was a definitemarking where she had been hacked, the copious amount of dark blood on the wetsand was evidence thereof, but she was still whole. Newly whole. Newly patchedup. And making her way back into the deep blue, unnaturally quickly. Somethingwas wrong.

We were starting tosnap out of our reverie, and a few of the men were trying to get a grab onBang-bang and hold him from his maniacal rage. But he was slippery fellow, andthinking of it now, perhaps not as ancient as he looked, or perhaps more so. Heran around to the fourth whale, managing to lean the ladder and climb up thecreature. He pushed it away when he reached the top, to stop anyone getting tohim. He held his saw high and was in the motion of bringing it down to theblubber, when someone hit him with a beach stone. And then another, and anotherand another till we all were throwing stones at the bloodied whale crier. Hejust stood there silently, while the entire town pelted him like it really waspart of a religious pilgrimage and he was the devil. We were angry. Angry aboutthe desolation of our once pretty town. Angry about hiding for two months. Angryabout our dying and diseased. Angry at what we had just witnessed, even thoughwe all knew the whales would have died anyway.

* * * *

* * * *

So we threw stones atthe crazy man, and it felt good. We felt vindicated. And even when he felldown, and lay on the beached whale, we threw stones. And even when we heard thesounds of hard stone against soft flesh, we threw stones. Even when we knew wedstarted smashing through the flesh to the bone, we threw stones. And even whenhis body stopped moving, we threw stones. And even when we heard an eeriewheezing, whistling sound from his punctured lungs, we threw stones. And evenwhen he stopped breathing, we threw stones. Till there were no more stones leftto throw on the stretch of beach, till we were exhausted. Till we saw thestranger move to each whale, and lay his hands on them, and talk to them inways only they knew, and watched them slowly move back into the ocean, one byone. And we were silent on our knees, with tears streaming down our distortedfaces, wordlessly imploring the stranger for an explanation. For hope, forforgiveness, for a miracle. And he answered:

It will be okay.

His voice wascomforting and it felt like hed spoken to me personally. It was the warmblanket we needed that day. And we believed him, without question. He came tous for a reason, and everything would be okay. He told us not to worry aboutBang-bang, that he would take care of the body, and not to be too distressedabout what had happened; we were, after all, just concerned about the whales.He said he was hungry and we left to gather at the town hall where we wouldmeet him, bringing hot food with us. We, or what was left of us, had our firstmeal together, while he walked around learning our names. He told us his namewas Gabriel and he was passing through, doing sort of missionary work, but notin the true Christian sense of the word. Gabriel had the brightest black eyesI had ever seen. He looked different. I could never quite discern what it was,but he was different from everyone. No matter how logical or cynical any of usmight have been had the stranger arrived under easier circumstances, he wasunimpeachable when we were around him. The lover we suspected of cheating, butin whose arms lay only truth, and in whose hands lay our predictable ruin. Andso the black-eyed Gipsy called Gabriel graced us with his company. And thingschanged.

* * * *

Gabriel stayed withthe Josephses, the family I was staying with until my cottage was renovated. Hedidnt speak much, and most days he was up and out before any of us hadbreakfast, and returned long after wed had supper. No one saw him for morethan five minutes; he was always on his way somewhere. And we never asked.

* * * *

A few days after theday of the whales, we had a bout of bad weather and Gabriel was home just as wewere finishing supper. He said hed eaten, but he sat down with Briony, theJosephs recently-blinded 12 year-old, and me. Briony had been leaning againsta window at her friends house when the first storm had shattered the glass andcountless splinters had ruptured her corneas. By the time her parents had gother to a doctor, nothing could be done to restore her sight. Gabriel sat acrossthe table from Briony, and started talking to me.

I never asked whatwork you do. It wasnt so much a question as it was a statement. I felt as ifhe was trying to force conversation, and wondered why, but I acquiesced. Had itbeen anyone else, I would have probed.

Im an attorney.

Oh. How long will ittake to restore the court? Perhaps he had a solution.

I might get atransfer.

Youll be leavingus? Like that? With what happened? You cant. I had a sudden flashback to ahistory teacher at school whose very existence convinced me the devil was ared-haired woman in too-tight navy blue pencil skirts and peep-toes. The hairon my neck rose. I knew I was being threatened but couldnt prove the crime.

What do you mean?was all I could lamely conjure, swallowing in the hope of producing somesaliva. Words were getting stuck in my throat, especially potent ones. He wasntlooking at me at all. Hed been staring at Briony since hed sat down. I lookedat her and saw perspiration beading her too-weary face.

Well, the storm ofcourse. The smile never reached his eyes.

I leaned across toBriony and, not wanting to startle her, softly asked:

Briony, are you okayhoney?

I touched hershoulder and she began to hyperventilate. Before I knew what was happening,Gabriel was behind her, with his hands on her eyes, whispering something Icouldnt understand. Almost instantly, Briony calmed down. Her parents camerushing into the room, wanting to know what had just happened to their preciousdaughter, Mrs Josephs with a permanently distraught look on her face.

Im okay, mom. Isthe light on?

The room went quiet.The Josephs and I looked at Gabriel, whose expression was, as always, like thatof a flat-mirrored sea.

Sweetpea? asked ahopeful Mr Josephs.

I think I can seethat the light is on.

The whole room washopeful. I went to the light switch and turned it off, signaling for no one tosay a word.

Oh. Its gone now.Its dark again, said the disappointed 12 year-old.

When I switched thelight back on, we all had something in our eyes which I hadnt seen for morethan two months: Hope. And the Josephs looked at Gabriel with an awe akin tobelieving the man to be Jesus or John Lennon. A modern-day Messiah at worst.Mrs Josephs would take her daughter to the doctor the next morning. But thatwouldnt be necessary. The next morning Briony Josephs could see as well asanyone else.

* * * *

Of course keepingthis silent was like keeping a cat on a leash, and soon the town was hailingtheir miracle man. Wherever Gabriel went from that day on, his path was strewedwith simple-folk bowing and hugging and crying. And they came to him, crippled,maimed, diseased, dying. Those in hospital, and those who ought to havebeen, werenow looking to the black-eyed Gipsy to heal them. And he did. And we allwatched the miracles at work. And we kept it our secret because he belonged tous, we couldnt share him. He was our Gabriel. And he came to fix a brokentown. Because it was his calling. He didnt ask for any payment in return.Nothing.

At least, not yet.

* * * *

Brionys screams wokeus one night. My room was closest to hers. I sped across with her parents inpursuit. Her clothes and bedding were damp with sweat, and she was still screamingwhen we got to her, but it seemed like she was having nothing but a bad dream.Mr Josephs turned on the light: a really bad dream. Her eyes were wide open,pupils dilated. Her skin felt like ice. Mrs Josephs held her frantic daughteragainst her chest but couldnt calm her down. The girl kept on screaming,shouting about being chased and something getting to us. Her dad threw some icewater in her face, to no avail. The more she screamed, the tighter and thinnerher skin began to pull, till it had the appearance of nude pantyhose on skin.Blue-green veins formed a hideous map underneath, and I believe some organswere visible too. I couldnt look in case she disintegrated under the softpressure or her mothers arms. Two and a half exhausting hours later, she hadfinally stopped screaming, whether from tiredness or relief, we couldnt tell.Her body returned to its natural healthy state. The Josephs took theirdaughter to a doctor the next day, but she was by all accounts a perfectlyhealthy girl. She wouldnt remember any of it the following morning, but thatnight, and all nights subsequent to that, Briony Josephs went into a screamingfit for two hours, her skin an icy membrane waiting to burst. None of us hadany clue how to stop it.

* * * *

Soon after this weheard about Danny Parker, whose paralysed legs had been restored to workingcondition under the healing hands of Gabriel. Danny lived alone, and even afterthe storm had mangled his legs, he didnt want anyone staying with him. So hemight well have fallen to his death if it hadnt been for Bang-bangs mangymutt alerting the neighbours to the fact that Danny had been about to walk offa cliff in somnambulistic oblivion. He had to be tied down to prevent him fromgoing anywhere. Come morning, hed been fine.

Isaac Jackson, whodsuffered a stroke during the storm, was fit as a fiddle following a meetingwith Gabriel, but went into some form of epileptic fit every night thereafter.He had to be strapped to the bed so he didnt claw himself to pieces.

And so similarstories filtered through town, and it wasnt too long before everyonesuperstitiously connected the dots. The town was dividing into two camps: Thosewho hailed Gabriel as their saviour, claiming the town would be doomed had henot arrived when he did; and a smaller camp of those who suspected somethingsinister was at play, and wanted the truth, or wanted him out. Id witnessedhim perform his miracles, and seen his club of sycophants, but I was leaningtoward the minority, and knew life at the Josephses was going to be a bitchallenging to say the least. I needed to speak to Gabriel, and so I waited.Gabriel was a creature of habit. Hed be in at 10:23pm, as always. At 10:20 Iwent to the lounge to welcome him.

3 minutes later he walkedin and hung up his coat behind the door. He put his umbrella, which he neverused, in the basket, and still with his back toward me he said in that calmvoice:

Waiting for me?

I had thought ofgetting him comfortable, easing into the interrogation, but I suspected thatwouldnt have worked. He was too damn smart for that, too damn smart foranything. So I dived in.

What are you doinghere, Gabriel?

I sleep here.

You know thats notwhat Im talking about.

Oh, what are youtalking about?

I couldnt back outnow.

These miracles youreperforming, like some new Messiah, and now its all distorted, people are ...things arent the same.

He kept quiet for amoment and smiled at me, like I was a kitten that needed to be untangled from amessy ball of wool.

If you turn back theclock, you have to deal with the consequences of changing your fate. And Inever claimed to be any kind of Messiah, that was the title all of youwillingly slapped on me.

He looked at me,unmoved.

What are the consequencesyoure referring to? What are you doing with us? My throat felt parched again,words not brave enough, running away from me.

Doubting Thomas? Askthose people you say Ive performed on, ask them if they...

Thats unfair. Ofcourse theyd rather have nightmares they cant remember than be blind forever,I spat out.

So why sodissatisfied? Ungrateful?

For what should I begrateful?

Youre right, youdidnt need healing did you?

I knew I shouldnthave, but feeling cornered, I lashed out. What did you do with the body? WithBang-bang? With the whales?

Theres thingsamongst us better kept secret, dont you think?

He turned to go tohis room, but before he left me he said:

I didnt ask you howmany stones you threw.

He was right. I hadreason to be grateful. He saved us on the day of the whales. Furthermore, hekept our secret.

Gabriel soon had agroup of people following him wherever he went, to whomever placed an order fora miracle. Mary Knicks was one of them. Mary was a pretty feather of a thing inher mid-twenties, with denim-blue eyes and soft dolls lips that were alwaysabout to crumple into a smile. She never spoke a word, and I put it down toshyness. Mary also had a weak heart, and her condition had rapidly deterioratedduring the months of the storm. But she was in perfect health now. What wasinteresting about Mary, besides her worshipping the hallowed ground on whichGabriel planted his precious feet, was that she wasnt a victim to anyrepercussions or side-effects of being healed. In fact, as days passed, themore I watched her, the more ethereal she seemed. She was glued to Gabriel likewhite to a yolk, our resident John and Yoko. It appeared that Mary Knicks hadlost her heart to a black-eyed Gipsy. I used to watch them walk together. Marywould stare at him as though he were a Michaelangelo come to life. She would bewith him and (I imagine) study him for hours. I know this because I studiedMary. She was a pretty thing, after all, and in a weather-ravaged place, shewas a beautiful reprieve from the need to get on with the job. Mary Knicks wasour treasure. And so when I started having strange dreams of Mary, it had me abit concerned. Not that I hadnt dreamt of her before, but these werent thekind in which she was moaning with pleasure while I did all sorts of sordidthings to her. In fact, they werent dreams, just one recurring dream:

Mary was walkingahead, and although I couldnt see myself, I had a sense that I was with herand she was leading me somewhere. We were walking in what looked like a claytunnel, sliding more than walking, and she would turn around constantly. Atfirst I thought she was looking at me, but she was looking behind me, atsomething or someone. I picked up on her sense of being followed, but found Icouldnt speak; my mouth felt heavy, anaesthetized, and Mary knew this andsmiled at me. She looked into my eyes for what seemed a long time, and althoughher mouth stayed closed, I heard her say:

It will be okay. Youmust let me do it. He is destroying us.

The tunnels around usseemed to be melting. Molten clay beneath my feet, I rushed to ask her: Who isdestroying us?

You know, Sang tey,Sang tey. Hi yee! Hi yee! Sang tey...

And more voicesjoined her in chorus. Looking around me, the clay was shaping itself intohundreds of forms. Closest to me were Bang-bang and the seven whales. I feltlike I was falling back, gaining my ability to speak again, shouting No! As Iaccelerated down the tunnel, Bang-bang came right at me and said:

Save her.

And I woke up with Sangtey on my lips.

I didnt know what tomake of the dream, because for the most part my dreams were insignificant wastematter, nothing I ever needed analysed. And while this wasnt entirely symbolicmumbo-jumbo, there was something particularly visceral about it. Of course theneed to speak to Mary grew with each dream. But what would I say to her? Mary,youre going to destroy Sang tey, cos you telepathically told me so in adream. Oh, and a clay Bang-bang said to save you. And, overcome withsheepishness and her beautiful eyes, thats more or less what I told her, andshe ran off. Im sure if she were the type, she wouldve put in screaming toboot. But before she ran, her eyes grew bigger, especially at the mention ofBang-bangs name, and she looked around nervously, as if to check if someonehad overheard, which made me look as well. And when I turned back, she hadfled. Although flabbergasted, the first thing I thought was that I would haveto resume my normal dreams of her, because that was most likely the closest Idget to seeing what lay under the pretty clothes she wore. For now, all I wouldsee was her back as she clung to her Messiah.

* * * *

I couldnt sleep thatnight. Probably because I didnt want to. The dreams were tiring, and Id hadenough of playing Cassandra to Mary. I got up and looked in my backpack for abook I hadnt got around to finishing after the storm stopped. When I reachedin to grab it, I felt folded paper against my hand, and removed it. It lookedlike a letter or a note, but the writing wasnt mine. Marys name was at thebottom. I didnt remember her anywhere near my bag, but that wasnt important.The note read:

I hope you read thisat the right time. I know youve had dreams of me, and Bang-bang. Theyre real.Bang-bang was my father.

I couldnt understandhow that was possible, but read further.

Its okay, you didntreally kill him. Not you or anyone here. I cant explain it all, but part of itgoes back to a pact made a very, very long time ago. A lot of it would seem toounnatural in this...

At this point she hadscratched out words.

I know you do nottrust him, and thats partly why Ive come to you. Hopefully you cant doanything about what happens next...

I dropped the note.It was 3:07.

* * * *

* * * *

At 3:07 on a coldwinters morning, the town was woken by screams that would make a deaf manthank the Lord. Those of us brave or stupid enough to do so ran outside, ordrove or cycled to the source of the sound. The nearer we got, the moredeafening and harrowing the cries were. There was another sound filteringthrough. Something almost like a rustling, crumplingbut not quite. Somethingaltogether more fierce and unforgiving. And just before I saw what it was, anoverpowering smell seeped into my nostrils. A stink. Wild. Rotten. Before Icould think what it was, my body reeled at what I saw in front of me. Tied tothe flag-post, in what looked like crucifix position, was the silhouette of aburning man. At first I though it was Bang-bang, because the burning person wasrattling off unintelligible words disturbingly calmly. But of course it wasntBang-bang. Wed seen to that on the day of the whales. One other person knewthat tongue.

It had to be Gabrielburning on a flag-post in the town centre, while Mary Knicks watched, eyesclosed, screaming like she was born to do it. I watched her face, shocked, butthere were no traces of horror or shock or heartbreak or even anger. What I sawclearly painted on Marys face was relief. Like that of a prisoner released. Iwatched her while others tried to haul Gabriel down, to no avail, throwingbuckets of water at the fire. I watched Mary Knicks. I saw the colour creepback into her skin, the air fill her lungs. I watched her hold her faceskyward, basking in the light of a sun that was still sleeping. I watched herchange, revived in that moment, and whether it was the reflection of thefirelight or not, she was golden. And beautiful.

The fire was finallyextinguished, and all that remained were the ropes and the shoes and ashes ofclothes of the Gipsy that came on the day the whales beached.

It will be okay,said Mary Knicks.

* * * *

I was wrong. Her eyeswerent denim-blue. Mary Knicks had the brightest black eyes I had ever seen.

* * * *

...I have to endthis. He calls himself Gabriel, but what he is, I dont know. He came beforethe storm. He brought the storm. He made you all depend on him, tied tohim, indebted to him. Thats how it started. I hope that I have succeeded inending it.

Mary Knicks

* * * *

An artist andplaywright, Widaad Pangarker had the thrilling experience of having a playstaged at The Artscape Theatre in 2006. To get there, she travelled from theage of eight via paper with her field mouse family, Fairy Soppity-toes,numerous angst-ridden A+ compositions, and poetry publications in anthologiesand a magazine or two.

Shes also taughtart and manages a craft and design store leafily nestled amongst squirrels andnuts. Known to travel, sky-dive, and play guitar to help her Siamese (andhubby) calm down, Widaad is also a keen photographer. Conjurer and conduit, shebelieves words are alive and loves it when characters kidnap her and do theirown thing on (and off) the pages while holding her hostage. She is married toher gorgeous soulmate, also a writer, who helps her unfurl while she fallswithout wings into words.

The Day of theWhales is part of a bigger picturethat Widaad is busy layering.

* * * *

This is Widaadsfirst story for Something Wicked.