The dinghy creaked in protest, its greening boards already straining from the weight. Its rusted oarlocks and frayed rope begged to be replaced. It was ready for its life to be over, but the people climbing in were oblivious to the sad state of the boat. Ignorantly, they jumped aboard, struggling to stand up, swaying the boat precariously from side to side. The groans went unheard by the heavy people aboard, and as the rope tied to the pier fell carelessly in to the water, the dinghy set off on its last voyage.

It was to be a strenuous one, with the weight and stupidity bearing down on the boat. The death long and drawn out, allowing for reflection and many pleads for mercy. But the people above, they didn’t care, only flicked pieces of faded red paint from the sides, not knowing the agony it caused the holder. Indeed, it was similar to having one’s skin peeled off with a rusty blade and an unsteady hand. The dinghy vowed revenge on the mindless aboard.

As the boat drew further and further away from shore, a plan began to form to make its death one to remember. The heavy people on board knew and could tell nothing, merely frolicked on the boat carelessly and without thought. They abused the small boat’s oars and yanked on the oarlocks. They pounded on the boards holding it all together. But the worst was the christening. They whacked the side of the dinghy with a bottle, and the glass jabbed the boat’s side. They called the boat an idiotic name, although its honored one Beatrice was clearly painted on the side. The dinghy had no respect for the vile masses of lubber aboard, and thus, it pulled them into the deep waters of Lake Superior before allowing itself to spring a leak and sink. The bodies of the two were never found, simply drowning in the forbidding, cold waters of the lake. In its pain and death, the dinghy smiled at the bodies struggling and flailing in the water.