This is a tale I dont intent to complete, at least night now. As an exercise I wanted to write something in the vein of HP Lovecraft.: The old ship creaked as it drifted toward the mountainous, jungle clad island. Fortunately the sea was calm, and the wind was light; the collision would not be severe. He gripped the rail as he waited for the impact. “A fine fix for a reluctant cabin boy” he thought. His name was Jamie King, and he was 13. He had always thought his last name ironic, as he was the furthest thing from a king – a pirate’s slave. He had been taken from his father’s fishing boat over 2 years ago, and each day had brought with it the potential for a violent death, or worse. He had survived by learning to stay out of the way. On those drunken pirate nights when the danger was at its highest, he had retreated to the little hidey hole has he found in the prow of the ship. The entrance was tiny, and he had to squeeze almost to the point of dislocation his shoulders to get in. The place had served him well, but was he aged he grew, so that the tight squeeze would soon become impossible. Then he would have to learn to fight, or die. But the place served him well one last time. The Captain and crew had just starting its drinking, celebrating a successful raid at an isolated coastal village. The plunder had been fair in pirate terms, but the take included ale and wine from a nearby estate. A British Man of War had pursued them, but they managed to elude it. And now they were anchored off the island, planning to go ashore for fresh water the next day. Banks of fog skittered here and there. Then the lookout sang out – the fog had opened to reveal a sloop anchored just off the port bow. Captain Kenneth raised his telescope. The ship was a light with lamps but no one was in sight. It was a fine looking ship, bigger than the one he had now. It was the kind of ship that would have worthwhile plunder. He took the wheel and steered a course to intercept the sloop. They would grapple the sloop so it couldn’t get away, and then board her and take everything that was worth taking. His crew drank and yelled blood curdling curses as they approached the sloop. Jamie knew that not one of the sloops crew would survive. He watched the sloop as it kept its slow pace – surely their lookout must have seen them by now. But there was no indication of any movement. Their ship approached the anchored sloop. Grapples were thrown and the pirates made ready to board. Jamie ran for his hiding place, not wanting to see he knew would come next. Desperately he squeezed in and waited. The sound of flintlocks firing and screaming came from the sloop; the crew was doing it’s dirty work. But then the screaming came and firing came closer. Suddenly something thudded heavily on the boards above him and a smell of rot and decay almost overwhelmed him. The screaming was now right above him. Then suddenly all went silent. A moment later the silence was broken by the sounding of something coming down the deck stairs. Jamie cautiously looked out. A pirate, covered in blood, was crawling down the stairs. Jamie saw that one of his arms had been ripped off at the socket. His face was a frozen mask of unscreamed fear as he desperately clawed at the steps. Suddenly his face convulsed, and he grabbed the stairs. He screamed as he body was raised up. A second latter he was gone, pulled up the stairs and out of view. Jamie shivered and pushed himself as far back in his hiding place as he could go. After that there had been the sound of slow thumping footsteps, and heavy objects being dragged, on the deck above. And then all was silent again. He stayed in his hiding place until daylight, and then cautiously emerged to find the scene he stared at now. The deck was empty, except for the cutlasses and flintlock pistols scattered here and there. And then there was the blood, pools of it, a tide that rolled and retreated with the motion of the ship. In one of the pools was something that looked like an animal track, but bigger than any animal track he had ever seen. The claws, or talon, or whatever they were splintered the deck. The tracks led to the rail; beside them ran the bloody trail of something that had been dragged .He felt his nausea rise and turned away. He knew he should have some protection on the island. Reluctantly, he turned back and reached out for the nearest cutlass. He fingers touched the hilt; it was cold and wet. He pulled it toward him. He raised it, testing its weight in his hand. Blood rolled down the hilt and onto his hand. He dropped the cutlass as if his hand had been burned by acid. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a rag. He wiped from his hand. He picked up the cutlass, wiped of the blood, and then threw the rag overboard. The ship shuddered as it came to ground on the beach. He went to the prow, pushed the cutlass in his belt, dropped a rope down the side, and climbed down it to the beach. He took the cutlass from his belt and looked around. Not far away was the beached sloop. He raised the cutlass and cautiously approached it. All was silent as he crept around the hull. As he rounded the prow he saw the same tracks he had seen on the ship. But now there were many, many more, each leaving a bloody trail behind it that ran from the beach into the jungle beyond.
Posted on: Mon, 06 Oct 2014 16:06:49 +0000