by Wen Scott, June 8, 2011

Flash Fiction (a very short, short story)

He watched more carefully this time, willing his eyes to focus as his makeshift  raft, a broken once–curved teak beam, bobbed upwards to the crest.

Yes.

A purple line drew across the horizon, slashing grey rolling waves away from the sky.

Land.

He licked his lips. Skin flaked. His hands ached, his raw–skinned knuckles whitened at his relentless grip. The raft rolled over the top of the wave and began its long slow roll down to the trough.

He closed his eyes. Nothing to look at at the bottom.

But there was hope now, wasn’t there? A line on the horizon.

He made a feeble kick. He cried out, his thigh muscles burned, his hips weakened from effort he could no longer remember making. He had a vague sense that at some time during his ordeal, he marvelled at his own refusal to give in to the relentless waves. Wondered why.

The raft rode down, down, water reeking of that salty, fishy stink he had grown to despise since… when? No answer surfaced. Tears leaked, mingled with salty spume misting his cheeks. What little bile he could spare rode up his esophagus. His throat burned.

“Please,” he cried.

The answer squawked back at him. He stared. A grey and white splotched seagull swung low, slid effortlessly upward, away, its wings catching the wind currents.

The gull refused to land, stupid thing, refused to be his friend.

Doesn’t matter. There’s land.

He closed his eyes and dreamt.

In his dream, the desert sand burned. He studied terrible blisters on his feet. He craved water, dared not lick his lips or give up precious moisture.

He staggered down a steep slope, feet sinking to his ankles, the sand scratching, chafing red skin. Miniature avalanches rolled past him where his footprints dug, filling the holes.

He pitched forward. He cried. That damn seagull swooped down once more, answered him. He knew the bird was mocking. He stuck fingers in his ears, refused to listen.

At the next crest in the dune he would see the line again.

Land.

He struggled upward, excited now, heart pounding. There was hope. He clawed and slid, stumbled and half–crawled. He made progress.

He looked over his shoulder. Somewhere in the trough between dunes, he had lost his name, his shoes, the reason he was here in the sand, in the sun, thirsty and dying.

He opened his eyes.The gull stared at him, black illegible eyes, head cocked to one side, then the other.

Land.

He thought of the line, that beautiful, purple line on the horizon, painted it in his mind, touched it, tasted it, loved it without shame.

Land.

The gull leapt off the meagre smash of teakwood as his raft pitched and rolled and staggered upward, made progress toward the next crest.

The water was colder than he remembered.

He leaned forward eagerly. This time he ignored his pain, pinched his broken lips tight, kicked viciously, propelled himself, his raft forward, upward.

Land.

No.

Gone.