Oct 5, 2021
Text: I spend hours cataloguing the museum’s dusty back room. A capricorn skeleton, disassembled. A seer’s orb that only shows sinking ships. A trunk of seal skins, faded with age.
#WhaleBoneProject
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Text: I spend hours cataloguing the museum’s dusty back room. A capricorn skeleton, disassembled. A seer’s orb that only shows sinking ships. A trunk of seal skins, faded with age.
#WhaleBoneProject
"The Whalebone Museum sits lonely and forgotten near the water. No one ever seems to see it. No one ever seems to go inside. "
Inspired by prompt by @deepwaterwritingprompts
#WhaleboneProject (for info)
"Remember, the water always returns what it is given," Grandma told her, low and under the hushed lamplight."But what it gives back won't always be the same."
She plucked the dried fruit from her pocket and laid it in the sand, just like Grandma had shown her, and she waited. The tar-thick sea crawled its way up the beach, reaching for her as it devoured the dried fruit with a hiss of inky foam. It receded, and in its wake, sat a shell; shiny and unblemished.
With a smile, she snatched it from the puddle of sticky water and the sea clung to her fingers like unkneaded dough, sloughing off in plipping, black chunks. She brushed the shell off and slipped it into her pocket. An oily film lingered on her fingertips and she wiped them off on her pants, only to leave long, streaking smudges in their wake. She frowned at the mess. Grandma scolded her the last time she stained them.
A sharp whistle shrieked down the shoreline. The sailors had returned from their outing.
Whalebone Oddities
There’s something you should know about my grandfather. When he was younger, he went to academy. He was a deplorable student, but still somehow graduated. His parents, my great-grandparents, likely bribed the school. He philandered for a number of years before he met my grandmother, who allegedly tamed him of his wild ways. In 1796, they moved to a coastal town because he’d been handed an upper management job as a harbor master on a silver platter. Coordinating and maintaining the boats and ships that came and went, enforcing marine ordinances, and so on.
He became the harbor master which was lucrative. Enough to get him and my grandmother settled in a quaint little mansion. Enough to give him the idea to become a money lender on the side. He’d oh so generously lend people money, then greedily demand it back with interest. I’m not saying money lenders are evil. They can be quite helpful to the community. But my grandfather… he took too much pleasure in taking the money plus interest. He couldn’t care less about the community.
The reason I bring this up is because at one point, he stopped the money lending, and he dealt in his harbor master duties via letter most of the time, holing himself up in his mansion. My grandmother still walked about town, socializing, and the like. But people started seeing my grandfather less and less. When they asked my grandmother, she just laughed and shrugged and said, “He is an odd one, my Ned.”
Eventually people stopped asking and Grandfather’s hermitic ways became the norm. What made the town gossip was when my grandmother stopped showing her face. The mansion was suddenly always dark with barely a peep from inside. Townsfolk would knock on the door with food dishes as an excuse to pry. But no one ever opened the door. The servants had all been excused, meant to find work elsewhere. Children started calling the Gibson mansion haunted, daring each other to go up and knock on the tall mahogany door or to put their back to the window for at least ten seconds. Rumors turned into ghost stories, of double suicides, of murder and then suicide done out of regret, of abuse and isolation that turned into deterioration.
People didn’t see or hear from the Gibsons for years. The authorities might have investigated, might have broken into the house, but the harbor master’s office still received letters from my grandfather, the bank still received payments on the house.
Years passed— those superstitious children grew up to become superstitious young adults— and one day, somewhere around the late 1820’s, lamps were lit throughout the mansion, servants were hired on to deep clean the forgotten mansion. My grandmother suddenly made appearances, a few wrinkles on her once porcelain face, but otherwise very much alive. She apologized profusely to everyone.
“Did Ned not inform you all? Oh my, this is embarrassing. We decided we wanted to travel. We’ve had many grand adventures. I am so sorry for making you all worry.”
Grandfather went back to lending money and taking over harbor duties, though no longer the head harbor master. But the town did not easily forget. Shifting, judging eyes. Whispers. They could not pretend the Gibsons hadn’t disappeared for two decades. Things could not go back to normal.
Suspicions only grew once the townsfolk were introduced to the Gibsons’ daughter. Early on in their travels, my grandmother gave birth to a baby girl. Though now she was eighteen years of age. Rumors abounded, mostly of my grandfather’s potential infidelity. Especially since this eighteen-year-old girl had black hair and nearly as dark eyes when both my grandparents had brassy red tresses. Their daughter, Isla, was a queer one. Always quiet and reserved.
One day a ship came in, Navy officers. Dashing men in desperate need of female companionship. One caught sight of Isla. He made attempts to woo her. I suppose it worked, because nine months later, I was born. This Navy officer, I never knew his name, was shipped off soon after my conception, never to be seen or heard from again. A scallywag, I know.
More rumors abounded, now of Isla’s virtue, or lack thereof. She became even more withdrawn from society. But she always tended to me, adored me. Sang me sea shanties at night. My grandfather did not care much for me. I suppose that should have hurt my feelings as a child. But it never did. Because I did not care much for him. It was a mutual disliking and ignoring. My grandmother on the other hand, did her best to also dote on me. But I caught her glaring at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I think it might’ve had to do with my father.
Then, in 1842, my grandmother died. Not long after her funeral was when the trouble began. My grandfather suddenly brought out his many chests filled with souvenirs from his travels. He placed them all over the house, along shelves and the like. He turned the mansion into a museum. He let word out and many came to see his odd wonders. He put me in charge of keeping them tidy and ensuring they did not get stolen.
I would spend hours cataloguing and dusting the souvenirs on display. A Capricorn skeleton, disassembled. A seer’s orb that only showed sinking ships. Chunks of whalebone carved into various shapes like boats and hands and seashells. And a trunk with a seal skin, always locked until Grandfather gave the tours. He called these souvenirs his whalebone oddities.
It was a great sensation for a while. The people’s curiosity overtaking their judgment. People always want a good spectacle, fodder for their rumors and condemnations. But then something happened.
I was fourteen years old when I was startled awake one night by a loud crashing. I rushed out of bed to discover the source of the noise. There was more crashing and banging and then I realized voices accompanied the chaos. I followed the cacophony to the library, where the greater, more valuable whalebone oddities resided. I hid in the shadows while I spied on my mother and grandfather fighting. Only one gas lamp was lit, resting on a coffee table. The rest was darkness. My mother was yanking on the chest with the selkie skin inside. Grandfather was trying to yank her away.
“Enough!” He shouted. “How many times have I told you, you are not going anywhere!”
“Please! Let me go home!”
“You. Are. Mine,” he growled. And then he successfully pulled her away from the chest and threw her to the ground. Her head smacked hard against the coffee table, making the lamplight shudder. I lurched forward and clung to my mother, a weak attempt to protect her from my grandfather’s rage.
“Leave her alone!” I yelled.
“Pup,” she whispered cupping my face, “Go back to bed. I don’t want you here for this.”
“No! I won’t let him hurt you.” I glared at him as he towered above us.
“Listen to your mother,” he snarled.
Fear rippled through me, but I stood fast. “Fine. I’ll return to bed. But mother is coming with me.”
This seemed to satiate them both, and mother came with me to my bed. I used my sleeve to dab at the blood on her brow. In the darkness it looked silver. But that couldn’t be right. Then she and I both snuggled into my bed meant only for one. We stayed that way for a long time.
I thought she’d fallen asleep when she whispered, “Can you do something for me, Pup?”
“Anything, Màthair.”
“Steal the key for the chest holding the selkie skin.”
“…The one around Grandfather’s neck?” I felt her nod. “Màthair? Are… are you a selkie?”
I felt her nod again. I expected to feel betrayed from the secret-keeping, but I only felt relieved.
“Pup,” she says, “you and I are also his whalebone oddities.”
“What do you mean?”
“… He says that naval officer was your father. He was not.”
Now I started feeling the betrayal, the sickening lump forming in my stomach. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying he is not your grandfather.” I don’t respond to this, digesting what she’s implying, wishing I could vomit it back instead. She continues. “Ned discovered me and stole my coat, entrapping me to him. Matilda despised it, begging him to let me go. But he refused. He made me… his mistress. My being their daughter was a lie to throw off suspicion. You are his child. I am so sorry, Pup.”
It was silent again as I processed it all, mostly the disgust that my horrid grandfather was actually my father. Many minutes passed without either of us saying a word.
Finally, I said, “If I steal the key and unlock the chest… that will free you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
The next day, Grandfather, or whatever it was I should have called him, gave tours, using his boisterous voice, “And here we have a piece of driftwood, broken off from the Haunted Ship that sails through the fog along the Atlantic. Can never be caught, but pieces break off given how soggy and rotted the wood has become. And, ah, one moment, ladies and gentlemen,” he took the key off from around his neck and unlocked the chest and, with a grandiose gesture, revealed the selkie coat. “And this is a true seal skin belonging to a selkie woman.”
The small crowd oohed.
I was never much of a clever one. Not that I’m not smart, I just don’t prefer to think things through. With that said, I rampaged, tackled my grandfather and yanked the key from his grasp. Then I ran. I ran out of the mansion, Ned close behind. I ran to the shore and, right as he was about to catch me, I hurled the key into the ocean.
“You think that will stop me?” he snarled. “I’ll get another lock, another chest. Or perhaps I’ll lock her up instead. You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”
“No,” I snarled back. “I’ve delayed you.”
Then out of the corner of our eyes, we both caught sight of her, a distance off, along the shoreline. My beautiful mother, with her seal coat wrapped around her shoulders, running towards the sea. She stopped and looked at me, a sad smile on her face. A sharp pain struck me with the realization, I would likely never see her again.
Then she dove into the sea.
My grandfather howled. He struck me. I landed hard into the sea-soaked sand. I thought he might hit me again. But when I looked up, I saw that we had an audience. The townsfolk had followed us out. They saw it all, my selkie mother, my grandfather striking me.
His reputation was ruined after that. I did not help any, telling the truth of it all to anyone who would listen to me. And like I said before, the townsfolk were always avid listeners. Grandfather was practically run out of town.
As for me, I lived in that mansion, just me and the servants, who became something of a family for me. I’d go to the shore every day and stare out into that grey sea, hoping to see her but knowing I wouldn’t.
When I got older, I decided to reopen the museum of whalebone oddities. But the only people welcome are those who come to reclaim what rightfully belonged to them. The Whalebone Museum now sits lonely and forgotten near the water. No one ever seems to see it anymore. No one ever seems to go inside.
Except, of course, on the rare occasion when a half-decomposed corpse steps inside, asking for the driftwood because, “The Haunted Ship is beginning to fall apart, we plan to repair it.”
Or when a sweet old lady with disturbing cat eyes asks for the Capricorn skeleton. “My dear Billy wandered off. And when one of his bones fall off, the rest of him comes undone.” We put the skeleton back together and suddenly it comes to life, head butting the wall.
Or the blind seer looking for her orb. It only reveals sinking ships because she’s looking for her long-lost love.
I enjoy keeping up the Whalebone Museum, though it is not very lucrative anymore. I enjoy giving these souvenirs and artifacts back to the places and people they belong to. Lonely work sometimes. The only whalebone oddity that won’t get to go home to its loved one is me. But I’ll have to be alright with that.
It’s these thoughts that consume me, so much so, that I don’t hear that heavy mahogany door open. It isn’t until she is right in front of me that I see her. And my heart lifts.
“Hello, Pup.”
#WhaleboneProject
@deepwaterwritingprompts
Kill Me Slowly
Inspired by three prompts (no. 2417, no. 2431, and no. 2442) from @deepwaterwritingprompts.
It took us years to finally get through to the board. The museum has waited patiently for us all those years. Years ago, it was crumbling, but now it has crumbled, silent rubble and motionless dust. Magic hovers thick in the air around it, and only humans are allowed on the exploration team.
We set out in pairs, a requirement of any magical exploration. The first of my partners to vanish was the mageíontologist, fading out among the Capricorn skeletons and Tsuchigumo webs. A Paleomageílogist went next, lost somewhere between now and then. I had high hopes for the non-magical archaeologist, but she disappeared into faded carvings and ancient seal skins worn with silver moonlight.
A little something for @deepwaterwritingprompts #WhaleboneProject
It's kinda loose and rough but I had the idea so I had to write it.
Prompt: "The Whalebone Museum sits lonely and forgotten near the water. No one ever seems to see it. No one ever seems to go inside."
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The Whalebone Museum sits lonely and forgotten near the water. No one ever seems to see it. No one ever seems to go inside. It's puzzling, really. It used to be our town's biggest attraction. People came from all over to see the exhibits: fossils, paintings, salvaged treasure. Even life-sized reconstructions of famous vessels!
Me, I spend all my time here. I've always loved it, ever since I was a little kid. I used to wander the museum, staring in awe at all the beautiful mysteries of the deep. My imagination ran wild, conjuring mermaids, sea serpents, pirates and a million other things to keep me entertained for days. I still come here a lot, even as an adult. The fantasies may be gone, but everything about the ocean still fascinates me. I learn everything I can, dreaming of one day seeing the wonders of the ocean.
But it's dark now, and quiet. I'm the only one here. I come every day, wandering the halls until closing time. Every day I watch the sunset, bright red-orange like fire, heat warming my face, my body, too warm- uncomfortably warm. The wind off the ocean howls like echoing screams, buffeting me towards the door. I start to panic-
...and then I come back the next day. Today the sun will be setting soon. I stand in the lobby, watching leaves and papers blow through. Odd, the walls seem so much less substantial these days. It's starting to warm up; the sunset is coming. Golden light illuminates an old newspaper page, dated last year, as it blows by. I catch the headline, just for a moment before the sunset hits:
"WHALEBONE MUSEUM BURNS DOWN, DOZENS OF LIVES LOST"
A little October project
I wrote a prompt about secondhand ideas, and it reminded me of something i get asked a lot on the basis that I produce 99.99% of the content here:
‘Aren’t you worried someone will write something successful using one of your ideas?’
Which i guess is supposed to imply that I could have written it instead.
Of course, im not, because of course, no two people are going to come up with the same story, even if they both start with the same specific prompt.
So this week, for fun, i give you three prompts all based on a two page piece i wrote a long time ago and then spruced up for this project.
I want to challenge anyone and everyone to write something (anything) based on one or more of these prompts, during the month of October. At the end, i’ll highlight some of them, and anyone can look through the tag!
The prompts will appear throughout the week and be tagged:
#WhaleboneProject
If you respond, please @ me in the post, and then tag it as mentioned above (#WhaleboneProject).
Deep Water Prompt #2426
The Whalebone Museum sits lonely and forgotten near the water. No one ever seems to see it. No one ever seems to go inside.
#WhaleboneProject
Deep Water Prompt #2428
The museum is old and decrepit, the enormous fish tank empty and dark with algae. They say they have a mermaid in there. They says she’s hiding.
#WhaleBoneProject