Tag Archive for: shipwrecks

Crewed

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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

 

Ship in a Bottle

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by Ria Hill

 

He remembered the splintering of wood, but it had been so long since he had heard a crashing wave he barely remembered what one sounded like.

The smell of the sea was a memory. The air around his ship’s hull was silent, as still as it was saltless.

In the shocking motionlessness of his surroundings, the captain wondered if he was dead or something worse, but it hardly mattered.

Even though the sea had killed him, he desperately missed it.

He stared, as he had for weeks now, out at the glass that surrounded his ship’s solitary form, utterly alone.

 

Ria Hill

Ria Hill is a writer and librarian living in New York City. When not writing, they can be found in the public library slinging James Patterson books. They enjoy reading, knitting, playing ukulele (badly), and spending time with their spouse. You can find them on Twitter @RiaWritten. 

 

Torn Trophy

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by Fiona M. Jones

 

I laugh to think how hard we fought over the Titanic. How carefully I’d mustered confusions, mists and timing; how Cyrin, late on the scene, gave that iceberg one final tweak of speed and direction, and reckoned the shipwreck hers. The long hours that followed, while we ripped it apart and snarled across the intervening seafloor. How certain we were that no other trophy could ever come close.

Who knew that the Land-People would respond by building bigger? I have my eye upon one now: a mountainous confection of music and colours and unsuspecting people. This time it’s mine alone.

 

Fiona M. Jones

Fiona M. Jones writes very short things. Her published work is linked through @FiiJ20 on Facebook and Twitter.

 

Captured in Glass

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by A.J. Van Belle

 

I can’t remember when I moved into the lighthouse. Or why the beacon’s never lit.

Model ships of glass, perfect replicas, sit on every surface in my circular kitchen.

The nights are deep and the surf wild on the shoreline rocks.

A storm whips sea foam against the windowpanes. The outline of a schooner tosses in the dark, looking unreal through rippled glass.

When its splintered wood joins the rest of the wreckage in the coastal waters, another glass schooner model appears on my rotting wooden table. I caress it with ghostly fingers.

I have been here a long time.

 

A.J. Van Belle

AJ. Van Belle is a writer and biologist whose science background informs their fiction. They can be found online at www.ajvanbelle.com.

 

Curse

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by K.J. Watson

 

A wave crashed on the shore. As it withdrew, the foam-flecked water left behind a ship’s captain. Another breaker deposited her wrecked vessel’s figurehead.

Just my luck, the captain thought. Instead of rum, this has to wash up alongside me.

 The figurehead’s demonic eyes lit up. Seconds later, its ligneous body became animate flesh.

“Your craft’s destruction has ended the malediction binding me to it,” the figurehead said.

“I know nothing of any curse,” the captain replied, attempting to crawl away.

The figurehead reached out a taloned hand and hurled the captain back into the raging sea.

“Liar,” it muttered.

 

K.J. Watson

K.J. Watson’s fiction has appeared on the radio; in comics, magazines and anthologies; and online.

 

Poseidon’s Youngest Daughter

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by Dr Bob Warlock

 

The boatmen smelled of sweat and animal fear. They pulled at the oars with all their strength but could not deliver the ship from the sea monster’s greedy current. Charybdis rose from the depths to meet them, razor teeth scraping against the hull.

Her mouth flooded in anticipation of flesh, of mineral bones and sweet organs slipping down her throat to fill her belly. She opened wide and sucked the boat down, down in a gurgling roar.

The men cried prayers to their ocean god, who only smiled an indulgent smile as he fed the morsel to his little daughter.

 

Dr Bob Warlock

Dr Bob Warlock is a writer, artist, and game designer currently living in England. They have been writing stories and drawing pictures since they could put pen to paper. As a gender-confused goblin they try to tell their truth through spooky stories, exploring themes of trauma, class, and the end of the world.

 

Jubilee

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by Jesse Highsmith

 

I no longer hear the ocean outside my cabin door. In its place are sounds much more sinister—scratching, clawing, pounding. I try to rest my weary head, but distant screams echo from down the hall. They are me. Or rather, they will be me. My door is already misshapen, giving way to the immense pressure of crazed tourists hungry for flesh. Now it is only a matter of time before I become the vile stench.

It’s been thirty-seven days since the cruise liner Jubilee ran aground, and thirty-one since its kitchen was picked clean. I hope the others choke.

 

Jesse Highsmith

Jesse Highsmith is a writer, musician, father, husband, and overall goofball from Central Florida, United States. He keeps his head in the clouds during his workday, and collects scribbled notes on long nights. Occasionally, he even finishes his projects.

 

Amongst My Gold

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by Caoimhin Kennedy

 

Amongst my gold, I sit in the hold of my ship. The rats scurry between my feet. Squeaking, feasting.

I hear the cries of the searchers. Anxiety within me. I emerge from the darkness and see the lantern on the horizon beyond the broken spire of my mast. The voices carry over the waters. I know they aren’t here for me.

Amongst my gold, I carve the flesh from an unnamed seaman. The rats protest as I scavenge from their meal.

Alone I sit. Alone I will eat. Alone I will stay because no one will ever get my gold.

Caoimhin Kennedy

Originally from Ireland, Caoimhin Kennedy has always had a passion for telling stories. He currently lives in Canada. His works can be found in an edition of Every Day Fiction and multiple Black Hare Press anthologies. His upcoming novel will be released at the end of 2022.  

 

Chow Time

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by Jessica Brook Johnson

 

The tentacled being floated through space in a ball of ice.

Smack! It hit the surface of a massive object. The ice cracked. The being was freed. Its tentacles tasted the object. Not food. The being’s stomach churned in hunger. It could not last much longer. It searched the object in desperation, tentacles clinging, pulling, and prying at every crevice.

An opening formed. Air blasted outward. The being almost blew away, but with determination, squeezed itself inside.

Noises blared above. “Decompression! Ship losing oxygen. Mayday!”

It tasted the air. It was full of pheromones, of fear, of food. At last…

Jessica Brook Johnson

I’ve traditionally published nine short works of fiction, one work of poetry, and I’ve won two Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future awards.

 

Voyage of Their Lives

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by Chris Tattersall

 

He had been blessed whilst his wife perished. Six days marooned; he knew the opposite to be true. He had been cursed with life.

His yacht gone, his wife dead. Starvation threatened, and soon any meat would be inedible. He told himself it would taste like pork, apparently humans do.

Saying a silent prayer for his wife, he sliced into the flesh with a shard of glass. The leg opened easily, exposing a layer of yellowy fat. He cut again; the pain hitting soon after exposing the red strands of his muscle.

If only his wife’s body had washed up.

Chris Tattersall

Chris is a Health Service Manager and lives with his wife Hayley and Border Collie Toby in Wales, UK. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. He also hosts his own website with a free flash fiction competition and resources.
Website: fusilliwriting.com