We Float Upon a Painted Sea Read Online Free PDF Page B

passed. When he regained his vision, he had lost sight  of the raft. Time seemed to stretch, seconds passed like minutes, the minutes like hours. He turned his head rapidly, desperately trying to relocate the raft. His guts twisted with the sensation of despair and the disintegration of all hope, but finally the raft reappeared, observed in snapshots through the oscillating motion of the sea. Moreover, to his elation, the raft appeared closer this time. After a final lung bursting effort, it was only a few metres from his floundering body. At last, he managed to put one exhausted hand on the grab rope and using the last of his strength, he held on, floating like a rag doll.
     
    With every heartbeat his veins had permeated with adrenalin, mitigating the effects of the cold Atlantic Ocean, but now his semi-naked body had stopped shivering and he started to become drowsy. He heard excited voices from within the raft. It sounded like the survivors were scared and panicking, but he was cheered by the resonance of human voices. He felt a surge of optimism growing from somewhere deep down inside. Using his final reserve of strength, he clambered around to the entrance of the raft. He forced his head through the aperture, hauled up his torso and dragged his bare legs onto the platform.
     
    Struggling to catch his breath, he crawled to the far side of the raft and crumbled to a heap on the plastic floor. His body was spent and flaccid. His purple lips were pressed against the synthetic rubber of the inflated pontoon, and when he broke from his loving embrace, he surveyed his new found inner sanctum. Under the canopy of the life-raft, everything was bathed in a soft orange glow, giving the illusion of warmth, but he was still cold and wet. Once more, he shivered uncontrollably. Through nebulous eyes, he surveyed the inner sanctum of the raft. There appeared only to be two survivors onboard, both men. One brandished a nasty cut to the head and was unconscious. The other was moving towards him with a silver foil blanket and introducing himself with a number of questions. He ignored him, but he noticed the same look of apprehension in the man’s eyes that reflected his own fears. The man persisted ranting in his face.
    “Are there any other survivors? The man said, “How long were you in the water? What happened to your clothes? What’s your name?”
    He held up a weak hand in protest. “Bull, my name is Bull,” came the reply to the last question.
     
     
    Chapter 3: The Lovers' Whirlwind
     
    2033 Three years earlier
     
     
    The live music and political statements at the Kelvin Grove, Peoples Climate Festival made little impression on Bull. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for the planet’s changing climate, the plight of millions of starving people, their once arable land being tuned to desert, their aquifers contaminated by the floods or their homes being washed away. At that moment in time, he was more preoccupied by the unwanted attentions of a bumble bee. He was aware that the bee was an endangered species, and in a curious way, he felt privileged by the attention, but after such a prolonged attack the time had come to kill the insect. Bull thrashed out, his hands and feet flaying at his assailant like an oversized ninja. He ignored protests from horrified onlookers, they, he thought, appeared more concerned with preserving the bee’s life and not his wellbeing.
     
    When the insect finally left he became aware of a woman standing next to him. She was wearing a long black coat and knee-length boots. She was laughing. Her attention seemed to be captured by the digitalised image on his t-shirt - a basket of cute puppy dogs. Underneath the illustration was a statement which she read out loud, “Every time you fail to recycle, God drowns a puppy. ” The woman laughed again and shouted above the noise of the cheering crowds and loud amplified music. She pointed to the image displayed along his gut.  “You can’t be