When the luster of shimmering flowers is

When the luster of shimmering flowers is answered by the roar of the sea from afar, the night crosses in stillness and without a sound.

I look up to the lighthouse, and muffle my oars. The beacon shines a ruby red across the breakers. We smuggle by the Queen's command. My hands are caked with sea salt as we row.

I can taste it in the air as the dingy bumps against the coast, wood scraping along the rocks that we would soon depart onto.

As I gazed out upon the breaking waves, I was reminded of a time long ago, before he had been taken by the icy depths and we said our goodbyes on this same beach. The chill wind

curtailed my waltz down memory lane. I paddled in thinking about a big chili cheese omelet, oblivious to the giant fin of the Russian Nuke sub following me. I felt something brush

against the back of my kayak. I turned and saw two tiny Russian sailors dancing on the deck of a miniature submarine. WTF!? They were smiling and kicking their little legs

up with their ams folded. Their tiny fuzzy black hats were getting drenched in the rain. With all their hopping about I was afraid they'd slip on the deck--it must be slippery ther

(which really means that I swam home, looked it up on Google Translate, and then came back). By then, the Russian sailors had drowned and I felt very bad. Vodka eased the pain.

I carved a stone memorial to them, using BabelFish this time to translate to Russian. It read: ALAS BRAVE SAILOR COMRADES SALUTING YOU! LOST BUT FORGOTTEN IN OCEANS OF DEATH!