Furious Fiction Shortlist

OLD SALT

Is this how it ends? 

“Man your posts! Do your duty!” 

My words are stolen by the wind, but it doesn't matter. The crew knows what to do. They don't need to be told.

There's a crack in the world, where the sea meets the sky, an invisible fold tucked neatly into the horizon. That little red line covers up the little red truth, like crisp linen on a blood-stained mattress: The sea is a brothel. Don't let her pleasures fool you—nothing good happens here.

Our eyes burn with salt and sweat, the only time you'll see the tears of a sailor except for maybe the birth of his son. Gnarled fingers heave on ropes and cloth as the rain gives us back our dignity. This canvas, beaten and weathered, is our Lord and Savior now.

Was she repaired right? Did my men pull their weight?

There's no way of knowing for sure, but we pretend we do anyway. Doubt is the biggest killer at sea. Lose faith in your crew and they'll spoil, curdle aboard your vessel like milk in the sun.

We watch the hands of the gods pry the world apart, grab onto that little red thread and give it a pull, conjuring a fissure in the darkness and filling it with thunder.

Is this vengeance? Boredom? Or maybe we just don't matter enough. I wish I knew.

I brace myself and close my eyes, steadied by the familiar sway of the boards beneath my boots, even as this wet bitch rages against my ship. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips, dry and callused from years of labour, my pulse tethered to the swells like rigging to masts. If the storm is a song, this is her crescendo.

I raise my arms to the sky, face turned to the heavens, and dare her to break my boat.

“Is this all you’ve got?” I scream.

She screams back, my hat whipped from my head, but she's tiring. Gods—not unlike toddlers—tire swiftly.

My ship rights itself, black sky breaking, dotted with pricks of light as starlight finds her way back to us. I sink to my knees, gazing up at the canvas with relief.

I thought this was it.

The voices of men return, along with the sweet smell of rum. The air is heavy. Stagnant. Something is wrong. I check the stars and my brow furrows. We're off-course.

I can't feel my heartbeat anymore. It's as silent as the wind is still. My men sway in the breeze, too drunk to notice there isn't one.

A voice, like broken glass in the dead air, whispers to me, “Pray to your sails now. I dare you.” She hums to herself—the tune that of a trickster turning tricks; nothing good happens here.

So, this is how it ends.