Prayers for the Souls of all Cosmic Debris: Prayers for the Soul

By Sailor Stone

A trilogy of stories about the resurrection of hope in the hearts of people whose lives have been crushed by tragic events.
Book One - Prayers for the Soul of a Dying Star - 
He knew. Going to sea alone and unprepared wasn't the wisest thing to do. But he was too tired to care. 
And so not knowing if anything ever mattered, he hoisted sail, hoping to find something to set a course for – something bright, like a guiding star. 
Then the gale hit, with its high winds, thundering waves, and cracking lightning, and all of the stars were obscured, and he figured this was a good way to go - drowning quiet in the din. 
But the island – uncharted - got in the way of even that.
Book Two - Prayers for the Soul of a Raging Moon -
She runs the night—with the moon over her shoulder and a small pistol hidden in her shorts—Amy Tamme jogs the dark city streets. Her guilt paces her steps as revenge fuels the beat of her raging heart.
Oh, how she misses him—her beloved husband—this man who loved her unto dying—as he saved her from the man that attacked her as she was jogging in the predawn hours those many months ago.
And so now she hunts for her husband's murderer, using her body as bait as she runs a path through the darkest haunts of the city…her steps keeping a measured beat to the rage of the pulse in her veins, with the full moon over her back, shining out its call—a false siren of light—for the revenge of her lost and dear man.
But then…one night Amy happens upon a newly opened jazz bar, with great live music and the tastiest craft beers, and she makes a new friend. And somehow this wonderful woman is like unto a savior for the rage that is crashing through her exhausted mind, and before Amy can muster the courage to reach out to her, this new friend comes to her instead, and Amy must decide if revenge is now her eternal and dark way going forward with her life, or if friendship and hope is her newly lit pathway. 
But then she tries to have both…and that can never work…or can it?

Book Three - Prayers for the Soul of a Virgin Comet -
The most beautiful woman in the world is a virgin. 
She stands every night at the end of her dock looking up to the stars, hoping for and dreaming of the chance to start her life again. But the nightmare that lies anchored in her past weighs much too heavy on her heart, so she sighs and turns back for the walk to her lonely home. 
Then one night there appears on the horizon a new light, a comet. And it has purpose—a cosmic mission—and this tragic and beautiful woman is forced to make a fateful decision.

You can instantly download and read all three incredible Sailor Stone books now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystica Holdings LLC
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386810407

Sailor Stone

Sailor Stone lives in the southern United States on the Atlantic coast where he stays busy writing novels and short stories in many genres, including Magical Realism, Coming of Age, Christian Literary, and Thrillers. His stories often feature protagonists that are trying to find their way in a cold and uncaring world, and where many times they get a slight - sometimes helpful, sometimes painful - nudge toward the truth from the supernatural.  Besides writing, he enjoys playing sports, photography, and studying the arts, philosophy, and religion. He likes discovering great books written by great authors, tasting new beers and wines, playing tennis, sitting in the back of a darkened nightclub and listening to a jazz trio take a long ride, being out on the open water in a boat, and worshiping quietly in the back of a church.  He considers the enjoyment of all the above to be multiplied exponentially by the accompaniment of his family and friends. For more about Sailor and his books go to www.sailorstone.com.

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Prayers for the Souls of All Cosmic Debris

PRAYERS FOR THE SOULS OF ALL COSMIC DEBRIS

SAILOR STONE

MYSTICA HOLDINGS LLC

Copyright © 2016 by Mystica Holdings LLC and the Author

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Prayers for the Soul of a Dying Star

Prayers for the Soul of a Raging Moon

Prayers for the Soul of a Virgin Comet

About the Author

Prayers for the Soul of a Dying Star

1

PRAYERS FOR THE SOUL OF A DYING STAR

To be honest about it; he was in over his head. He’d already been thinking this before the lightning struck his masthead and ripped the main and jib sails to shreds. He knew his boat had suffered even more damage from the lightning strike but he was too busy fighting to keep the boat upright and afloat through the high winds and big waves of the gale to assess how bad the damage was.

One month earlier, Grip Taylor, lying on his bunk, in the darkness of his boat cabin, on the night before he was to set sail from Miami, in the most lucid moment that he’d ever experienced, became frighteningly aware that he wasn’t up to the journey on which he so desperately wanted to embark. It all became crystal clear in his mind: that as a man of the seas, a sailor—he was but a neophyte.

But that insight didn’t stop him from going on his journey.

It wasn’t like he had anything to look forward to in his life as it was and when he’d gone sailing for the first time ever, in the spring of the previous year, he’d found himself instantly addicted to the sound of seawater slapping against his hull and the sensation of a blind wind torquing his sails and propelling him across the open water. Then soon after those first days under sail—the thought of casting off the lines from the dock and going on a long solo voyage through the islands of the Caribbean sea became to him like what he imagined a crackhead must feel as he waits for the pipe to be lit and handed to him—it was something he just had to do and he couldn’t wait to do it.

He never expected he’d be happy again, but he hoped maybe to at least… to at least not be so sad all the time. The vast ocean was his only chance. And if he didn’t make it—well, no big deal, right?

Now, back in the moment and deep inside the storm, the sky was dark and the waves were much bigger than his seamanship. Perhaps more time sailing, another season at least on the open waters gaining experience and knowledge, would have benefited him. Grip was startled by the smashing clap of thunder as lightning struck the top of a wave rolling by him to the port side of his boat, the Sea Tripper, and he doubted that in this enormous gale even ten more seasons would have helped. He was in a dire strait.

Ahead, just off to starboard, was the black shadow of a small island. It was more of a large rock jutting from the sea really, and Grip was working the wheel and the small motor of his boat to keep from being grounded on its shoals as he passed it by. His GPS said it shouldn’t be there, or rather, it wasn’t on his GPS—it didn’t exist—this should be clean sea, deep water, no reefs, and certainly no island. Grip was pissed at his GPS. He sure needed it to be working correctly during these hours in the storm; he needed a good line on his chart, a point in the right direction.

He gritted his teeth and turned hard on the wheel keeping the small rocky island just to his starboard, the wind and waves almost overpowering the motor and bashing his boat against the rocky shoals as he passed by, and then—immediately before him—was the shadow of a much longer and higher island. He looked again at his GPS, then to his charts. There was nothing on them to indicate he was near any islands. Perhaps he was lost. Not only did he come up short as a man of the sea in manning his boat, but he was coming up short as a navigator. He sucked. And he might die for it.

There was something. What was that roar above the wind? He let it come to him. He heard the sound of waves, not rolling, but crashing and exploding, and he saw the white shadow of a surf line between him and the large island. It was a reef.

The air went out of his lungs as he intuited the trigonometry of the wind and waves, the reef, and his boat. He was running aground.

He began readying his boat for the violent event as fast as he could scramble about the deck.

Now, with everything that was loose thrown down in the cabin of the boat and the life raft inflated and ready, Grip went back to the helm and almost said a prayer as the boat was caught by a wave and pushed toward the reef. But he didn’t. God hadn’t been there for Aubrey and Jenny. Why would he be here for him now?

The little motor on the boat had nothing close to the horsepower needed to keep the boat from being tossed toward the island. Grip only hoped to use it to keep the bow of the boat pointed to shore as it crashed onto, and hopefully over, the reef.

For a moment the boat was tipped so high bow to stern as a wave passed underneath that Grip thought he’d fall the thirty-five feet from the wheel down to the sea below his bow. But he managed to stay balanced, hands to the wheel, and keep the boat from pitchpoling forward onto the fast approaching reef.

Moments later, the bow of the boat hit the first towers of the submerged reef with an awful crunch-sounding-thump that vibrated through the hull and then Grip sensed the sharp rise of a black shadow behind him and he turned in time to see the largest wave he’d ever witnessed rolling under, over, and around him. He knew that both he and his beloved boat weren’t much longer of the earth, though in the back of his mind he was laughing at the thought that he and his ship would be a part of the great sea. He loved crab meat, so perhaps, in what Grip knew was only fair in the brutal game of survival, his body would soon be a fresh dinner for some crabs instead. So a bit of irony would be his last insight before dying, he thought. Then what?

The stern of the boat rose high on the front of the crashing wave. Grip felt himself falling, tasted salt water being rammed down his throat, and then everything went cold, wet, dark, and quiet.

It isn’t time, Aubrey said, as behind her, Jenny nodded her head to him. You can only stay for a bit.

This was crushing news. A big disappointment.

He heard a noise like liquid death between his ears and then he heard someone coughing. His eyes were closed and so Grip tried to open them to see whose coughs were coming to him loud and violent, retching and vibrating within his darkness.

When he vomited saltwater and bile all over his arms, warm to his skin, he realized he’d been the one coughing.

That’s the third time this morning he’s puked like that, sir. You think he might finally wake up?

Grip opened his eyes to a bright sun and three male faces. He took a long look at the three faces and threw up again. It was better if he kept his eyes closed for a bit longer he decided. That was some bright sunlight.

It’s like he tried to swallow the whole ocean. Have you ever seen so much water coming out of one man’s innards, sir?

Give him some room, Dinky. He’ll stop soon enough.

Yes sir.

The next time he came to consciousness he was in a bed and it wasn’t so blindingly bright when he opened his eyes. He was in a small air-conditioned room, but even with the air conditioner on, its compressor humming mightily as it cooled and dehumidified the air, Grip could smell the sea.

He was thirsty, very thirsty, and his head hurt badly, and his ribs hurt as well, but otherwise he felt like he’d live.

yay.

He heard voices, the voice of a man and then a woman’s, outside the door to his room. There was a low window on the same wall of the room as the door and through it he could see the midsections of the man and woman. He tried to listen to what they were saying but their words were muffled by the glass in the window and he couldn’t make them out.

The voices stopped and then the door to his room opened and a beautiful woman walked in carrying a tray brimming with tropical fruit and a glass pitcher of ice water with slices of lime and lemon floating in the water.

Good morning, stranger. My name is Kelly. I’m the island nurse. She spoke in quick sentences, her eyes looking intently into Grip’s eyes.

Grip tried to respond and a sound like a frog talking through a sock came from his mouth. He closed his mouth.

Not yet with the talking. Drink some cold water first. Kelly was tall with dark hair and thick, voluptuous hips and breasts. She had high cheekbones, several freckles, and dark green eyes. She placed the tray on a table near the bed and poured water into a glass that was already on the table. She sat next to Grip on the bed and pulled his pillow up and helped him to a sitting position. It felt like his side would spill open so bad was the pain in his left ribs.

She indicated for him to open his mouth and she gave him a drink from the glass. It was the most satisfying drink of water he’d ever had. The water coated his dry mouth with cold wetness, bringing it back to life, and then it rolled down his throat like monsoon rains pouring across a dry desert riverbed.

More, he said, reaching for the glass, his voice sounding better than his first effort at speaking.

Kelly gave him the glass and watched him as he downed its contents in two large swallows. I will bring more water, she said, then added, very soon. She took the glass from him and refilled it and handed it back to him, Not so fast this time or you will vomit.

He nodded and took a sip from the glass, decided it wasn’t enough, and took a large swallow. Where am I? he asked.

Blue Fall Island. You came over the reef in your boat, Kelly said as she stood and made her way to a chair by his bed.

He remembered. He closed his eyes as it all came back to him. Kelly remained seated. She stayed quiet and gave him time and space.

After some time had passed and Grip sensed the movement of sunlight through the window, he asked, "My boat, the Sea Tripper, did she make it?"

Dinky and Monty are working on it. I can ask. I saw it. It looks like the sails and the front need fixing. I heard Dinky. He said it never capsized. He was amazed. That is good. No? Kelly had an accent that Grip couldn’t place and her sentences sounded like verbal machine gun fire with short, clipped words and syllables.

Grip thought about it, the bow and the sails, and depending on what she meant by need fixing he hoped that his boat might be seaworthy one day again. He almost prayed it to be and he almost thanked God for his boat not being destroyed on the reef. It never occurred to him to give thanks for his continued existence. Not praying, after a lifetime of doing so, was a hard habit for Grip to break. He didn’t pray, he held it back.

You hit your head. You’ve been asleep a long time.

How long? he asked.

A night. Most of a day. You slept away the head injury. That is good for you.

I’d like to see my boat. How far away is it?

Kelly raised an eyebrow, Your boat? About fifty feet. Walk to the window and see. She helped him to his feet. The room spun for a moment, he became unsure of himself, but then all went still and with Kelly holding his arm he stepped across the room to the window and looked outside.

You are in the guest hut. By the little lagoon. There is your boat.

Grip saw his boat moored to a dock with two men aboard and working on it. They were on the bow lying prone on the deck with their heads hanging over the starboard side away from Grip. He couldn’t see what they were doing but he hoped it was easy work. Grip looked at the mast and realized it was naked, with no sail on the boom and also no jib furled to the forestay. He had spare sails but much of the boat’s rigging was loose or missing.

He took a deep breath. It hurt. He was fortunate to still have his boat. And he was alive. Being alive was a good thing he had to remind himself as he took a look to the lagoon and the island beyond his boat.

Emotionally and spiritually he had felt better once he’d set sail on the Sea Tripper—on his journey of discovery, out on the swells and in the wind—but now, with a terrible headache and painful ribs, a broken boat, and standing on dry land, he missed his sister, Aubrey. It wouldn’t have been a bad thing to be in heaven with her now. He’d felt like he’d just almost made it. And he especially missed Jenny, his fiancée. He could be with her as well.

He took a deep breath at the sudden recollection of his loss and a flash of searing pain shot through his chest, but then the pain in his ribs began melting like snow under the black heat of his memories for his two favorite people and he said, Fuck it.

Excuse me?

He’d forgotten about the nurse. He went so deep inside his sadness sometimes. That was why sailing was so good for him; it let him go far away, deep to the inside as he sailed far to the outside, and he had only himself to answer for it.

I’m sorry. I remembered something, he answered.

Kelly took a long look at him. The sadness in your eyes isn’t from seeing your broken boat. It was a question.

Not even close. But I need my boat. Grip took a look to Kelly, At least if I want to keep sticking around.

He felt her hand on his back, Here, come back to the bed. I will check on you later. Rest. I will tell Mr. Tide that you are going to be okay.

Kelly helped him back to the bed and she put a glass of water in his hand before she left. She said, He will want you to come to lunch tomorrow. So get better. Drink the water and eat the fruit. I will be back. With more water.

Grip heard himself asking, Who is Mr. Tide? Though he really didn’t care if she answered or not.

He is the boss. He owns the island. He is a good man. She shut the door.

The next morning Grip was feeling better. His headache was gone and though his ribs were most likely broken he considered himself, his emotional health notwithstanding, to be on the mend. He stepped out from the cottage as the sun was rising from the sea. The Sea Tripper called for his attention but Grip wanted to look around at his surroundings before he boarded her, for he knew that once on her deck he’d begin working to make her seaworthy, not stopping until the sun began to set that evening.

The lagoon was beautiful to behold. He looked along the edge of the lagoon to its mouth, a tight opening to the sea, lying between dense trees and rock outcroppings. Through the gap in the rocks, Grip could hear the waves as they pounded and rolled across the reef that he had somehow (Luck? God’s helping hand?) crossed two nights before without losing his boat or drowning. The sky was a bright blue and the waters of the lagoon clear and shaded green. He could see the bottom of the lagoon; it was white sand. At the far end, the end away from the sea, was a large creek that fed water, gurgling over rocks, down into the lagoon. Behind the creek was dense foliage and behind that was a tall plant-covered hill with a cliff face on the side closest to him.

His cottage, more like a hut really, was small but well kept. Next to it was a generator, a table, chairs, and a fire pit with chairs around it as well. There was fresh cut oak wood, wood that didn’t come from the island Grip knew, within the stones of the pit, ready to be lit.

Behind the cottage was a trail that went up another hill. Near its top, surrounded by green grass and manicured hedges, was a large house, more like a mansion. Next to the house was a helicopter pad with a helicopter, painted bright blue and yellow, its blades hanging low, idled, shining in the sun.

Grip sensed that most of the island’s geography was on the other side of the hill on which the house stood, away from where he was standing.

Let’s have a look at your boat, Grip heard behind him. He turned to see a man standing on the Sea Tripper, motioning his arm to him, a bright smile on his face, to come aboard.

How did he get there, Grip wondered, as he stepped toward the boat.

Kelly said you have broken ribs so walk up the plank slowly.

I’m fine, Grip answered as he took the first step onto the small gangway to his boat.

Once on board he found himself shaking hands with the man and the man said, I’m Dinky Colcutt. I can fix your boat.

With my help of course, Grip answered.

"Those are good words. A man should use his own hands to work on his boat. It’s best that way. Just like his woman; a man should always