The voyage was all fun and games until the iceberg came.

Nobody had invited the iceberg, and it seemed to show up out of nowhere. One moment, Rockwell was painting the dog on the banister, the next, the iceberg was full frame in the painting, like someone who hasn't noticed that you're taking a group photo and decides to walk right in front of the camera.

There was no use reasoning with it. It was obstinate, unmoving, rather dull to boot. At dinner that night, the usual good cheer in the ballroom had evaporated. Everyone was silent. The old colonel tried to crack a joke, but his wife just glared at him through her mink and pearls. Someone spilled a drink and cursed. Nothing could be done about the iceberg, though.

The voyage eventually made it back to the mainland. Now the iceberg just sits in the harbor, and every last bit of cheer has been siphoned out of the city.


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alexandergreenb (joined almost 12 years ago)

My favorite contemporary writer is Tao Lin.

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