One Piece of Flash

I wrote this flash as an action scene exercise and really like how it turned out. This story feels like the beginning of a much bigger story, but I'd have to learn a lot more about boats and the speech of medieval sailors. And I'm not sure if it's worth it.... Read on!

The Last Mate
By Cynthia Ravinski

Hidden in the sea grass on the edge of the cliff, Sadj viewed the three-masted Prevail, the ship that sailed itself. Her decks still empty. The taste of victory came to his tongue. Finally, it would be his. Only that ship could take him to the straights of Dairegga. No crew of a normal ship would sail those waters.

Below, the rowboat still waited, roped to the dock on the rocky beach--right where the crew had left it three days ago.

A dark, terribly familiar man ran out of the woods, crossed the beach and began pulling at the mooring ropes.

Sadj rose and dove forward, somersaulting down to the beach. That man couldn’t make it back to the Prevail.

Landing in the sand, he scrambled for even footing.

“Captain, wait,” he shouted across the beach, waving.

The dark man looked up and pulled his knife.

He must have seen the rest of the crew. Sadj sprinted toward the dock, the sand dragged at this boots.

The knife freed the rowboat in one slice. The Captain of the Prevail stepped aboard. He splashed the oars into the water. The boat slowly drifted away.

Gaining the dock, Sadj leapt. The rasping of metal rang over the sloshing of water.

Sadj landed, rocking the boat. He caught his balance, then focused on his opponent. The Captain had drawn a short cutlass, but hesitated.

When he lunged, Sadj sprang to the other side of the bench, landing with his foot braced on the bow.

Keeping his balance despite the swaying, the Captian said, “As your captain, I demand an explanation of your actions.”

“You know why. You’ve always stood in my way. No longer!” Sadj drew his main-gauche and, staying low, sliced for the Captain’s thigh.

The Captain parried, but a thin red line colored his breeches.

Their golden eyes met, the Captain’s questioning. Sadj clenched his fingers around his hilt and rammed the guard into the Captain’s face. He fell against the side, crimson ran over his nose and mouth. Sadj followed his opponent down and knelt on his chest.

Dazed, the Captain fumbled at Sadj’s solid weight and felt for his sword although he still held it.

The main-gauche slipped easily through the Captain’s ribs and into his heart. He convulsed. Sadj freed his blade and rolled the corpse into the sea. Under the red-streaked morning sky, he shuddered at the stains trailing in the water. Is this what victory feels like?

He sat between the oar locks and rowed toward the Prevail. Tonight, Sadj would board his ship. Tomorrow, he’d retrieve the men he’d signed at Frosbien, men who couldn’t sail but had other skills, and he’d be Captain Sadjamar.

The Prevail’s magic didn’t end at sailing itself, she also chose her own crew--unless her crew died and another boarded her before she could find new men. He'd learned this three days ago from his brother, the last captain.

The End

Jeb's Lament

This is a piece of flash fiction I wrote a while ago. Hope you enjoy it. :)

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Jeb's Lament

Okay, I admit, it's been a while since I've been in a fist fight. I've been in fights, sure, but most people around here use weapons. This was plain, bare-fisted mayhem. Been a few years since someone picked a fight with me. So you can imagine my surprise at being knocked to my knees with the first hit, a quick jab thrown mid-conversation. I don't see myself as a glass jaw fighter but this guy's sucker punch sure as hell made me feel like one. I used to be able to hold my own in a fight. I'm not used to losing arguments. But there I was, kneeling on the wooden planks of the dock, watching the blood from my busted lip pool beneath me.

"C'mon!" said a voice from above me. "I'm not through with you yet."

Ah condescension, that I'm used to. Nobody considers I might be a better fighter than I appear to be. Like this guy, Jeb, at least twice my size and obviously trying to prove he's a tough guy. He stepped forward, moving a little too close. I inhaled, letting saltwater air fill my lungs, invigorating me. I tensed, and in one smooth motion I rose to my feet and drove my fist into his chin. I heard something crack, who knows what - his jaw, my fist, his teeth. Probably all three, considering the throbbing pain in my clenched fist.

One of his drunken friends laughed. "You asked fer that Jeb. Hoo-rah whatta hit!"

Jeb stumbled back and shook his head. "Motherf..." he slurred, then fiddled with his jaw. "Frak."

I edged closer, forcing him to stumble back another step. And there it was, the sun shining in his eyes from above the cliffs behind me. He squinted and I took advantage of the opening. I spun around, building momentum, and drove my foot into his chest with an authoritative thud. Sound of wood shuddering from the impact of his backside ceased his friends' laughter.

Silence.

Even the ocean seemed to pause for a moment, crystalline waves poised like serpents ready to strike at the sand.

Jeb clutched his chest like he was trying to reorganize his lungs. His friends stared, mouths agape. Every beat of my heart pounded in my chest, sending needles of pain to my lip.

Then the sharp tinny sound of a bell rang out from the ship coming in. I needed the dock cleared.

"So," I said. "You gonna move that boat now?"

Jeb grumbled something incoherent, so what was I supposed to do?

I kicked his head, knocking him out, and turned to his friends. "Move that boat, then get this jerk out of here."

They glanced at each other, then nodded in unison. "Yes ma'am."

What time is our torture session?

Let's have a little fun from the not too distant past. This is a flash fiction story that I worked on for a little competition I had with a writer friend. Maybe she will post her original entry some time. What I found interesting about flash fiction wasn't that the stories where short, but that it let us write, edit, and critique several stories in a short time. It was a great workshopping tool. Want to focus on dialog? Make a flash story that consisted of mostly talk. Want to work on fight scenes? Make a flash that consisted mostly of action. I think one mistake I made was focusing on scenes. I started writing scenes instead of a story consisting of a beginning, middle and end.

So please, enjoy my very first ever flash fiction story.

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I know what evil lurks in the minds of ... no no. That just sounds like the start of a corny old radio show. How then shall I start this, "Once upon a time?" Somehow I don’t think so. That would, after all, suggest an ending like, "They lived happily ever after." Don’t make me sick.

I want to tell you a story about real evil. Evil so tangible that you could reach out and touch it, like a mist that envelopes you and seeps into your mind.

Let me then, tell a story about a close friend. The queen of her realm. Her subjects pander to her every whim. But imagine if you will, those subjects decide to rise up and wield a mighty mechanical weapon, built for the sole purpose of rending chunks from your person.

First they feed her tasty treats, oh yes, very tasty indeed. Her senses dull and she finds herself in a wonderful euphoric state where her mind drifts atop fluffy clouds and she flitters around with little bunnies.

Then a buzzing sound, distant at first.

The bunnies. No longer carelessly frolicking are all looking at her. The once innocent pink-rimmed eyes turned cloudy and red. Fangs bared.

The first bite she doesn’t feel, a clean slice through her fur. Then the chewing begins. Again and again teeth bite into her and rip clump after clump of fur out.

An eternity. Then the buzzing stops, her bonds released, and one of her subjects say, “Okay kitty, you can go now. All your mats out!” She gets scratched behind her ear and offered another kitty treat.