Imagine a boat. Did you do it? Good job. Now imagine that boat being lifted by a wave the size of two houses. The wave crushes your boat, sending you into blackness. You taste salt. Open your eyes, dummy. The houses you pictured, picture them again. Good job. You’re in one now. The salt is gone. You smell dinner. Fish, no, steak. Filet mignon. Good job.
   A woman with long blonde hair places the steak and mashed potatoes on an oak plank table and invites you to sit down.
   No time! No way!
   The woman starts floating in the living room. Water spurts out her eyes, now her mouth. Her hair turns green. Her stomach turns brown. You lunge at her, sinking your teeth into her medium rare tummy. She screams. Her scream sounds like your voice. Blood runs down your mouth, your face, your neck. Tastes like salt.
   Next time try talking to her. Open your eyes, dummy. A wave the size of the Empire State Building is coming.

Victor lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His writing has appeared all over his closet on loose sheets of paper.

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OUT TO SEA — VICTOR VEKTOR

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