Commotion rang out through the town plaza. The shouts of disgruntled shopkeepers were almost drowned out by the sound of their wares crashing to the ground. The clamor was terrific, various sizes of pots and pans clanged across tables, broken glassware scattered on the street, and fruits and vegetables flew into the sky, bouncing off of awnings in the process.

“Watch it!” Lorenzo, the town pet dealer exclaimed while his exotic birds expressed their own protests of annoyance. One parrot in particular had the mouth of a sailor, which made sense given the town’s short distance to the Azzurro Sea.

“Sorry!” Marianna managed to yell behind her as she vaulted over a cage of lizards. In her defense, the commotion wasn’t her fault. At least, not directly. The culprit of the current chaos was Piggy, a Sicilian Buttercup chicken who was running for her life. About five minutes ago, Marianna had forgotten to wash her hands after picking some garlic in the garden. As she bent over to hand feed Piggy some chicken feed, Piggy became very offended by the strong, garlicky scent and dashed between her legs, through the gate, and towards the square. Feathers, as well as general pandemonium, had quickly followed suit wherever the hen scuttled.

Wiping tomato juice off her cheek, Marianna continued to parkour through the market after the abnormally fast fowl. The hen was much faster than her, running from tabletop to tabletop. Marianna didn’t have the luxury of an oblivious chicken brain. Having been raised to be polite, she was forced to twist her body around bicycles and shops, trying to dodge as many people and tables as possible. This took a while, especially since she took extra care not to step on any fallen goods.

I wish I were just a little bit smaller, Marianna thought while dodging an airborne apple. At least she’s easy to track though, she noted, glancing at the trail of items scattered in front of her.

One row of baskets and one parasol stand later, she finally made it out of the busy market. However, her sigh of relief was cut short by what she saw ahead.

Somehow, Piggy was making a mad dash towards the marina, as if trying to make the chase even more difficult. With so many seagulls, crates, and small boats, it would be very easy to lose a chicken. The only thing separating the avian marathoner from the hill leading to the ships below was a wooden bridge, which straddled a small creek.

Marianna was fast, but Piggy had a head start. As the pitter patter of chicken feet transitioned from cobblestone to wood, Marianna knew she had one last shot before the situation got worse. In a desperate attempt, she bent down, took off one of her shoes, and threw it at the hen.

The shoe just missed, but that’s exactly what Marianna wanted. She didn’t want to hurt the chicken, just startle it. However, Piggy was not only startled, she was terrified of the sudden loafer attack. So terrified that she instantly swerved, unceremoniously ran off the bridge--and with a loud plop!--toppled into the small creek below. Marianna ran to the bank to catch the bird. Piggy, who was now capsized headfirst in the water, was flapping her wings and kicking her legs in the air, bubbling out ungrateful cries of dissent. The pathetic motions were not helping her plight at all as she slowly floated downstream. Piggy looked remarkably similar to, well, a chicken with its head cut off, Marianna noted as she grabbed her by the legs and lifted her out of the water. “Don’t do that ever again,” she scolded the defiant chicken.

Piggy squawked a sarcastic mouthful of water out in response.

“Fine,” Marianna replied, “I promise I’ll wash my hands tomorrow.”

Piggy coughed up another watery response which Marianna decided was agreement.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Papa Alessandro was exhausted, and this afternoon, he could tell it wasn’t from his daily ship model spree. He had just finished carving a replica of the Royal Navy’s largest Brigantine, The Deadly Nemico, by hand. The original craft was 80 feet in length. His miniature replica was only half a yard long. After wiping his hands on his apron, he held the model aloft. With oak wood glinting in the sunlight from the window, he scrutinized his craft. It was a good start, but he still had to sand and paint it, not to mention fashion the thirteen sails and engineer the wooden helm to a functioning rudder. For now, he placed the unfinished model back on the desk. He could come back to it. His chestnut work desk sat directly in front of a wide, rectangular window, which overlooked the shining Azzurro Sea in the distance, just 40 yards away. After getting lost in the green waves, a whiff of salty air brought him back to the room.

He glanced around the workroom, admiring it. Besides the kitchen, this room was larger than any other in the house. The space was well loved. Ornate, delicate ships hung from the ceiling with twine, gently rocking in the breeze, as if riding upon invisible waves. In the center of the room, a beautiful, ocean-blue rug rested on the wooden floor, which was spotless except for an occasional wood shaving. On the rug, a circular table with a fleet of diverse bottled ships refracted the light onto the ceiling above.

Against the wall to his right, three large bookcases stood tall. Alessandro thought his library to be very practical--books of famous sailor knots, scores of constellation charts, many varieties of maps both local and distant, advanced fishing techniques, and a single picture book of ships--which he would reference from time to time. A few books however, had belonged to Mera.

These were more frivolous books, with stunning cover art, each promised tales of adventure and romance and treasure. The same three things that Alessandro felt to be lacking these days. If Marianna didn’t love those books so much, he might have sold them long ago. Facing an onslaught of painful memories, he gazed at the other wall. This wall was empty, except for a tool chest, an old fishing net, and a shelf with a few photos. The one he tended to look at most was of his wife, standing on the beach. Despite the beige tint overwhelming the black and white photo, he could still picture her auburn hair and light blue eyes. He initially had thought that the pain of her loss would get easier, but after ten long years, it still cut deep.

Wondering if he would ever heal, he walked towards a different photo of his wife, daughter, and himself together. The likeness of the then three year old Marianna had a very wide grin, which perfectly captured the memory of her childish joy. Alessandro realized that despite going through such a life-changing experience at such a young age, she still smiled like that today. As he opened the tool chest, his thoughts were interrupted by loud steps galloping up the stairway.

Photos and model ships bounced slightly as Marianna burst into the room, slamming the door open. Her feather-covered hair, missing shoe, and tomato stained dress told him all he needed to know, but she elaborated with a loud voice, “Papa! Piggy ran off, and I had to chase her across town, but I caught her!” She hoisted the chicken triumphantly into the air. The capstone to her motion was an especially loud cluck from Piggy, who was sitting in her hand like a trophy.

Alessandro gave her a wry smile as he put his carving tools away. “That’s good news,” he said, patting his stomach. “She can join us for dinner.”

One of the few things Papa enjoyed more than building ship models was eating the cuisine of his ancestors. He taught his daughter from a young age the family motto that had been passed on for generations, which was, “never fish on an empty stomach.” Looking at dinner’s aftermath, he may have taken that motto a bit too far this evening. Stacks of empty plates and bowls sat on the dinner table, though most of the kitchenware were on his side. The only food left in sight was a bit on Marianna’s plate.

Their meal consisted of pasta, fresh bread, prosciutto, cantaloupe, and salad; one of Marianna’s favorite meals. Papa made it often enough that at this point, her way of eating it was more like a science. She normally had the salad first, this made sure the acidic vinegar left her palette by the end of the meal. Next, she would eat the pasta, relying on the aftertaste of the salad to enhance the flavor. Then, once the pasta was gone, she dipped a small slice of bread on her plate, soaking up the tomato sauce. Bread consumed, she could finally finish her meal with a fresh tongue. This was the best part.

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The orange sunlight from the kitchen window poured in the room, illuminating her treat. Already relishing just the thought of it, she stabbed a piece of prosciutto with her fork, followed by a small chunk of cantaloupe. Eating both together, she couldn’t help but smile to herself in enjoyment. The salty, meaty taste of the fresh prosciutto married the juicy cantelope’s tang perfectly.

This is what life is all about, she thought, as she halfheartedly tried to slowly finish the rest of the fruit covered meat. There might have been something to the family motto after all.

After she swallowed the last bite, her gaze drifted across the table to Papa. He seemed very peaceful; his eyes were shut tight and his belly seemed just a bit more plump than it had twenty minutes prior. Deciding it was best to let him rest, she glanced at the corner of the room. To her delight--Papa wasn’t just joking about Piggy joining them--and he had kept his word.

Piggy, who until this evening had never been allowed to eat inside, now stood in the corner of the kitchen, clucking happily away through a bowl of colorful vegetable peels. Marianna had inspected the scraps personally with a magnifying glass from Papa’s workshop, checking for even a single shred of garlic. Once she was satisfied with the greens, she used the humble meal as a grand gesture of apology, appealing to the hen for forgiveness, much like how a prestigious ruler would have offered a gift of peace to another.

Clearly, Piggy had forgotten all about the events of the day. Her bowl sat empty and forgotten and she was roosting on the warm, sunlit tiles. Thankfully, a few missing feathers were the only evidence that the chase had even happened. Marianna’s sundress now hung across the clothesline on the top floor, and her shoes sat by the front door. Despite this, Marianna still felt a bit bad for the chicken. Since she was the one to collect the chicken eggs daily, her opinion was that a chicken’s life is already much too stressful for a traumatic experience like Piggy had lived that afternoon.

Marianna stood up, and took the dishes to the sink. Just as she started to scrub the crumbs off of a plate, her father spoke. She turned to look at him.

“Mari, put those down. We can do them later.” He gestured at the open window with a pointed finger, “The sunset is perfect tonight for Vista Alta.”

Gazing out at the orange and pink evening sky, she agreed instantly. Quickly drying her hands off on her dress, she exclaimed, “I’ll go get a book!”

In her excitement, she didn’t even hear her father call after her. In only ten seconds, she was upstairs in his workshop, already deciding what she would read. Panting heavily, she took books from the shelf, looked at them, and placed them back in rapid succession.

A plethora of novels sat in front of her, but which should she choose? There was the story about a princess who saved a prince, which she considered to be a fun twist on an otherwise overused story, but she had read that a dozen times. She’d be better off reciting it. What about the one with the talking fish who grants wishes? No, she had always found that tale disturbing. After all, fish were for selling and eating, not for talking to. That’s what chickens were for. Eventually, she decided on The Adventurer’s Almanac of One Thousand Animals, by Angelico Ricco. This book was her favorite--she loved to read facts about all sorts of creatures and admire their corresponding colored sketches--and of course, they each had a unique scientific name which she would try to memorize. Yes, this book would be a perfect choice for Vista Alta tonight.

Vista Alta was what Papa and Marianna called their special spot, which was located on the roof of their house. The only way to it was in the attic. There, a small window opened to a deck that Papa created long ago using wood, nails, and rope. Marianna had been afraid to step out there as a child, but as she grew older, she understood just how sturdy Papa had made it. Clutching her book tight, she stepped onto the wooden planks. She was instantly rewarded with a stunning landscape; the Azzurro Sea sparkled with colored reflections of both sunlight and sky. Only a patch of tall umbrella trees separated her gaze from the beach in the distance. The view here was undoubtedly nice, yes--but the roof--the roof was the true Vista Alta. She turned towards the house and climbed up a small, wooden ladder to the roof above. There sat Papa, who was already there, his legs dangling off the ledge. He had a rope tied to his waist, the other end of it was tied to a metal hook on the chimney. They never had an accident before, but they used the ropes religiously all the same. Marianna reached for her own rope which extended from the chimney to a space in front of her.

“Why hello princess!” Papa teased her with a slight bow, “You finally came to join me! Don’t worry, I stopped the sunset for you and I saved you the best seat on the house.” He tapped the roof next to him.

“Why thank you,” Marianna responded. She did her best to match the tone of Papa’s voice, delivering her best attempt at noble demeanor as she tightened the anchor around her waist. “I had important matters to attend to--royal business--you know how it is.”

“I see,” he said, glancing at the almanac. “Ah! That one has always been a favorite of mine. Did you know that an octopus is smart enough to use tools? It’s true!”

Marianna sat down beside him. “How do you know that?”

“Well, if my memory serves me, I believe it happened a long, long time ago to my grandfather’s grandfather, Salvo Amato. You remember him, yes?”

Marianna nodded, “He was the one who started the family business.”

“Correctamundo! That’s my girl!” He gave her a hug with the arm closest to her. “Papa Salvo was fishing on the Azzurro Sea on an evening just like this one, the largest fish in the entire sea caught hold of his fishing hook. He fought against the beast, but in the end, the scaly behemoth snapped his pole into pieces and dragged it to the depths below.” He sighed, “A catch like that could buy me a new boat.” Papa paused, as if trying to remember the story. He seemed to be looking far away, as if he could see the past.

Marianna, who loved nothing more than a story that was true and entertaining, urged him to continue. “what happened next?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Papa was brought back to the moment. “You see, he was so upset at his broken pole (and the lost catch) that he threw his tool chest into the water.”

“What?” Marianna exclaimed, “but that wouldn’t solve anything!” Why someone would do something so irrational was beyond her--even if they were angry.

“Not normally, no.” Papa said, gesturing in agreement. “But for the very first time in all the history of mankind, something good happened because of a temper tantrum.”

That didn’t seem possible. At this point, Marianna was hooked. “Did an octopus bring his tools back?”

“Oh, an octopus did much more than that,” Papa said, his eyebrows raised. “In the morning, when Salvo returned to the beach, he saw an octopus swimming away from his fishing boat. Thinking nothing of it, he climbed aboard. There, he found his tool chest back in its place, as if he had never thrown it into the sea.” He glanced at her sideways, a clever glint in his eyes. “What he saw next almost gave him a heart attack. Sitting on the deck of the boat was his fishing rod, completely fixed, and with absolutely no sign of damage.”

Marianna gasped, but then she stopped herself. “Hold up,” she said, leafing through her book. Something about Papa’s story didn’t quite seem right. “Octopuses aren’t native to the Azzurro Sea, see?” She pointed to some text on a page with an octopus on it. “They live all around the ocean, but not here.”

“Well,” Papa scratched his neck sheepishly, “I have heard that Grandfather Salvo drank a lot of wine.” He grimaced.

Marianna laughed.

The orange sun set, and the sky surrounding it changed to a deep scarlet color. The rest of the heavens became a dark shade of violet. Papa and Marianna stayed up a bit later than they should have, but they both thought it was worth it; sunsets like these were a treasure. Papa told Marianna to go to bed; he would put Piggy away for the night. Marianna happily complied, and after she returned her book to its shelf, she changed into her nightgown.

As she fell asleep, she thought of how good her life was. There were plenty of moments where she missed her mother, but she never dwelled on those thoughts for too long. It would have been nice to have someone to help her with all of the things that teenage girls worry about, but Papa worked to make sure that ultimately, she had all she needed. Besides, she had so much in her life that she enjoyed; living with Papa and Piggy, reading good books on the Vista Alta, and skipping through town while diverse aromas met her nose and beautiful sights found her eyes. She was writing her own unique story, and experiencing each moment was a joy. Yes, her mother could have only enhanced that joy, but this was still a wonderful chapter of her life. In Marianna’s final moments of consciousness, she made a silent wish to never leave it.