Day thirteen: We must be nearing land, as the cargo is just about ripened. Today I awoke to find that my eight legged roommates were back. If spiders weren't brainless survival machines they might hold it against me that I had days earlier squashed their forefathers against the dirty walls of the box. When I was a boy, Spiders were among the greater causes of concern. As time, passed those worries had to be focused on girls, getting a stable job in manual labor and eventually, my current journey. Why do they always go for the neck?
Day fourteen: The clementines I ate today were sweet and juicy, which made them much more enjoyable on a scale that wasn't tainted by starvation. The spiders are a constant annoyance, as I wish they would feast on the nectar of the fruit rather than the nectar of me. There is a rash forming on my lower neck where I've suffered the most bites.
Day sixteen: My neck continues to itch, but the crew's recent attitude leads me to believe that we are near our final destination. The number of seeds I've collected thus far: 18. The spiders have started behaving in a way most peculiar, as if they have come to revelation that on the other side of this boat ride, they will still be heavily persecuted and hated by all. They have been much more mellow and cautious, a quality in insects that I do not trust. Before, cornering one would lead to raised front legs, now they seem indifferent.
Day seventeen: I remember the first day at my job picking clementines, how we were told that depending on the destination of the batch, we had to pick at varying levels of unripeness. Our biggest importers, Australia and Israel had vastly different picking schedules which caused lots of confusions, mix-ups and verbal/physical abuse from our superiors. The spiders are wedging themselves into nooks of the crate in a most unnerving way.
Day eighteen: For the first time on the voyage, I worry that there might not be enough food for me to make it all the way; the thought scares the hell out of me so I try and put it in the back of my mind. Somehow the American folk song ‘Love Shack’ became stuck in my head and while it gives me some peace of mind, it wears thin quickly.
Day nineteen: Small crate is a little old place where, I sit rationing fruit. Small crate baby. I am convinced that we’ve strayed off course along the way; I heard two of the crew members speaking ill of the captain’s competency. When I woke up this morning the spiders were all gone. I got me a seed, that makes about twenty so c'mon and bring the shore on honey.
Night nineteen: I was jolted awake by a terrible shake, there is much yelling; I'm trying to hear what they're saying but the storm is making it difficult. Somehow I think that this might be a bad thing.
The boat is definitely not right side up anymore; as the remaining clementines have formed a pile in the corner. I don't know what else to do but write. The box is far too sturdy to kick open, so I suppose I can at least transcribe my last thoughts before I drown in a salty fruit cocktail. The screams of the crew has turned to a dreadful silence, with the only remaining sound that of rain on the metal hull.
Reality is cold and wet; the water is rising in my box. On the bright side, I learned that clementines float. I'm now writing upside down on the top of the crate, and I'm for the first time feeling that my space pen is being fully utilized. Water has reached my genitals (that's always the worst part). I hear sirens! Do they have those on naval boats? I hope whomever arrived likes citrus. I think it's time I stop writing, as yelling might be my best chance right now. If these are my final words, let the world know of them.
-Jamel Kibensteer.
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