by Liam Hogan

In the storm’s dying gasps, we descended the cliffs to see the wreck, cloaked in tattered sails, masts broken, and hull holed.

It was far from the worst sight; the beach was littered with crawling shapes. The wreck was barely thirteen hours old, but these pitiful bodies were similarly shattered, in similarly tattered, aged garb…

Aghast, we weaved between them. Recognised, despite the decay, half-familiar faces. Fathers, sons, brothers… Tracked, with a jolt, the unearthed dead’s direction of travel. We helped them into the ocean and onto the empty, skeletal hulk.

It was gone on the next tide, destination unknown.

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer. He helps host Liars’ League London, volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories, and lives and avoids work in London. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk