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Of shipwreck's at a journey's end

by malo gledhill

In search of Atlantis, I got lost in the metro. Faces around me,

sunken vestiges of beauty long gone... I stare at the window-

pane, the reflection of the scene we’ve constructed is much

more bearable than the real thing. The rocking of the wagon

makes our skulls bob. We look like lethargic rowers, bringing

shame upon Neptune’s name. We Drift. Deeper into the tunnel, The density of obscurity intensifies; Pressure amplified; bodies

pressed down to the ground; flesh liquefied; bones shattering

into a million specks of sand; veins turned algae green; ribs

Collapsing. I scratch the unbearable itch on my neck and my fingers

plunge into my gills, my nails digging into its capillaries. I try to scream. Bubbles erupt instead, robbing me of my right

to share the horror of being 20,000 leagues underwater.

Light. Mesmerizing, beguiling solace in a dominion where the sun is

no ruler. I approach you. Venerable source of human

potential, I swim closer. Only to find that you tricked me. And

the unclenched jaw of an ancient anglerfish devours me

whole. Engulfed in a Paleogenic monstrosity, I dive back in

Time. Bioluminescent matter devoid of life, filled with being,

ontologically paradoxical, glides aimlessly through the dark

seamless cosmos of my existence. In this vast expanse of

endless possibility, wasted potential, chronological

synchronicity, and philosophical impossibility, I hear my heart beat once more and remember to


I open my eyes, the metro's come to a halt.

Lying in the fetal position, worried eyes staring. The soft ringing in my ears turns into a voice: “He’s back” I smell of brine, my pallet tastes of sea salt,

I hear the crashing waves of the medics’ hurried footsteps. The whales will sing my tale tonight, I grin.


Malo didn’t start off with writing. He preferred telling stories and reciting other people’s poetry (especially Dylan Thomas’). When one fateful day, his friends saved him from his dark past of being a theatre kid and told him to sit down and compose. It wasn’t great, but it got better in time. Malo has already been featured in the Madrigal and is thrilled to be a part of it once more. If you’re confused by his pieces, know that he is too. Shaun the Sheep is a great show.


Image by Bree Anne
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