A group of  icebergs conspired in the cold arctic water. They were on the prowl for a ship. They had seen one once and had not liked it. In their anger they discovered their purpose. Before that they believed their purpose was to write romantic ballads composed in the sky. Sometimes these ballads were known as Aurora Borealis. Other times they were known as the flu.

The icebergs continued their patient search. It took them ten thousand years to float a mile. But they all agreed it would be worth it when their time came to be the one to wreck the ship, to crack a hull, possibly host a survivor or two. Then, when the humans died, their bodies would leave a sweet man-tattoo for a while, before the birds came. The bragging rights would last a full age. Until another ship approached on the horizon and it would start all over again.

One day one of them made a discovery. We are going the wrong way, he said to the others. They all groaned in woe, which sounded a lot like air being let out of a car tire. And so they turned to pursue a different direction. But it did not matter. Soon their time would be over, and ships would be able to safely steer clear of their frozen decaying bodies.

[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/foley.html]


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