Short Story Competition 7 (Photo) - Vote HERE!

pickarooney

This is the voting thread for round 7 of the Variations on a Theme writing contest. For more details, see here.

As a reminder, the photo which would serve as inspiration for the contest can be seen here:
http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7151/6640605851_8086731f3e.jpg

Eight boards members submitted stories and you can read them all in this thread. For the next week, we're asking you to vote for the best of the bunch and choose the winner.

All entries will be posted anonymously for the duration of the contest and the authors revealed at the end. Contestants, please resist the temptation to respond to questions on your stories or defend them until voting is over, so as to retain anonymity and fairness for all.

You may vote for as many entries as you like, but we would ask you to please provide feedback on the story or stories for which you vote and for as many of those for which you didn't vote as you can. Don't hold back if you have negative criticism, but please make sure any and all feedback is in some way constructive. Voting is public, and votes without a post in the thread will be ignored.

Voting will open today once all stories are up and will end in the early afternoon of the 31st of January 2012. The winner will be announced shortly therafter.

Best of luck to all involved and thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and rate the entries.

pickarooney

Version 8

Moving on

Peter Brooks: Psychic Consultant, his business card lied. He wasn’t psychic; psychics were frauds and he wasn’t. Well he was, but not in the same way. People were willing to pay good money for the services of a medium and it seemed like the natural market for his skills.

The hefty pay cheque was the only reason Peter was standing on the deck of that ferry that afternoon. There were people all around enjoying the fresh air or smoking. It was warm and he was resenting needing to wear his long, heavy coat. He waited for the sign as his finger danced over the button sewn into his coat pocket. He needed to time it right. Otherwise he would be back here again tomorrow, and earning twenty percent less. The ferry owner was standing by the smokestack holding Lucy in his arms, as instructed. Peter studied the cat carefully. Then, as expected, there it was. Her hackles rose and face contorted into a hiss. Peter hammered the button with his index finger and everyone disappeared.

Laura stood in the centre of the ferry deck and she knew something was very wrong. Here I am again, she thought, but wasn’t sure what she meant by that. It was so very still and so very quiet. She walked to the side and peered out across the bay. Nothing was moving. The sea was stationary, not flat like it would be on a calm day, but filled with waves that had somehow…stopped. She blinked and then turned to look all around her. Her eyes fell on the smokestack of the ship and the billows of smoke that hung in the air as though they were painted there.

“There you are. Laura…Manning?” A man’s voice came from the other side of the deck. She turned and saw him, wearing a long black coat and reading from a spiral-bound notebook.

“Yes,” she replied with wide eyes.

He scribbled something in the notebook and looked up at her. “I’m here to help.”

Laura felt relieved, but confused. “Sorry, help me with what?”

Peter looked again at his notes whilst scratching his cheek with his pen-holding hand. Without looking up he gestured towards her, “You know; moving on, passing over, shepherding your immortal soul to the other side. That kind of thing.”

“Wait,” said Laura, her face concentrated in confusion, “I’m…I’m dead?”

“Yep,” he answered. Great. One that doesn’t know they’re dead, my favourite, he thought and sighed.

She was silent for a moment and then said, “What’s it like? The other side?”

“How should I know?” he shrugged, still not looking at her.

“Aren’t you from there?”

“No,” he replied and grimaced at the idea of being mistaken for one of them.

Peter didn’t care for the dead. Sure, it was fascinating that they hung around, scaring children and insomniacs, and it was pretty impressive that he could talk to them, but as a group, they were an irritating bunch. They were forever asking the same questions and wittering on about their troubles. They never understood that none of that stuff mattered anymore. Get over it, you’re dead, and you’ll be gone in a minute.

“Laura,” he started and lifted is head to look at her; she seemed lost in thought. “Laura, you drowned, right here at this point in the bay. You fell from the ferry. You don’t remember, that happens sometimes, nothing to worry about.” He offered her a smile but she just stood there blinking at him.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, and approached her. She didn’t say anything. “The clothes you’re wearing, are they yours?”

She was startled by the baffling question. Of course they’re mine, whom else would they belong to? she thought and looked down. Ha. She was wearing a white jumper and a pair of white jeans. She would never own a pair of white jeans. “No,” she answered him with a puzzled expression.

He stopped a few feet in front of her and wrote another note in his book. “Don’t worry, I see that a lot. You people always wear white, I still haven’t figured out why. Sometimes, like with you, it’s clothes you never even owned.” He beamed at her, thrilled to have another example, and jabbed a full stop onto his notebook.

“Why has everything stopped?” she asked

“Everything hasn’t. We have,” he explained, “we’re in a tiny sliver of reality that’s offset from the ‘real’ world. So, everything seems stopped, but really it’s barrelling on regardless, unaware of us. Just a minute ago I was standing right over there surrounded by people.”

“Why can’t I see them? The other people?”

“You can’t see animals either from here. There were about 10 seagulls hovering just there.” He motioned to the side of the boat.

“But, why can’t I see them?”

“Haven’t a clue,” he responded with a shrug. Seeing her expression lapse into bafflement once more he clapped her reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Oh! You can touch me!” she said.

“Of course I can. Did you expect it to be like the films? Passing through walls, possessing the living?” He snorted a laugh and shook his head tucking his notebook into a coat pocket.

“Laura, now I’m going to help you to pass over to the other side,” he told her, ducking to look into her eyes.

“Like heaven?” she asked.

“Exactly,” he replied and patted her on the head patronisingly.

“So, I’ll have to resolve whatever issue is keeping me here, put things right? Then I can go to heaven?”

“Aw, bless,” he said and cocked his head, “it’s not the middle-ages you know.”

He took his pen in his teeth and rifled in an inside pocket pulling out what looked like a small, square smart phone attached to a headband. “Hang on,” he said and took his notebook out again, flicking through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He typed something into the device referencing the notebook. When he was done he slid the pen into the spiral of the notebook and pushed both back into his pocket.

“Right,” he said eventually, “I’m going to put this on your head and it will help you pass over.” He stretched out the headband and placed it on her head with the square device resting in the middle of her forehead. He unrolled a cable and attached one end to the device and the other to something he was holding in his hand. She watched him with fascination. He took three long steps backward. “Are you ready?”

“Should I close my eyes?” she asked, the cable lying loosely by her nose.

“Whatever you like,” he replied, checking the connections on the object in his hand.

“Alright, I’m ready,” she said, closing her eyes and lifting her arms out to the side.

Christians, he thought, always expect ascension.

Then he pressed a button and vaporised her out of existence.

---

He gathered up the headband and put the component parts back into their assigned pockets tidily. He paced back over to the spot he had chosen and lined himself up carefully again, making sure his feet were where they had been and that he was standing in the same position as much as possible. When he was happy, he pressed the button in his pocket once more and everyone reappeared. Lucy stopped hissing.

Showtime, he thought, and strode over to the centre of the deck, standing right at the centre of the helipad that they used for medical emergencies. Out of a pocket, he took a knotted cloth filled with sage. He unknotted it and began to scatter the sage about the deck, and began, “Spirit! Leave this place!”

After some time, various types of incantation and a final flourish of his hands he finished the performance.

---

“I don’t think you’ll be having any more trouble,” he told the ferry owner, “she’s gone now.”

“Are you certain?”

“Guaranteed.”

“Thank you very much Mr. Brooks, I was beginning to think I was going to go out of business. Even when we changed the route to avoid the spot, people were still afraid to come with us.”

“Well the ‘curse’ is lifted now Mr Yamada. Are the press here?”

“Yes, I asked them to wait below deck as you requested, I will call them now.” He took his phone from his pocket and started speaking to someone in Japanese. He hung up, “They’re on their way.”

---

Peter stood shaking Mr. Yamada’s hand with a serious look on his face on page twenty-two of the Okinawa Times.

He had the article cut out and translated for his files. The headline read, “Famous British psychic exorcises ferry ghost”. The article detailed how he had performed a, “Western cleansing ritual to rid the Yamada ferry of the ghost of drowned Canadian woman Laura Manning, who died tragically on the route six months ago. Mr. Yamada, proprietor of the ferry commented, ‘We knew we needed a western expert and Mr. Brooks was the obvious choice. I am glad to say that we have had no further sightings since the ritual was performed. I hope that Ms. Manning’s family take some comfort knowing that her spirit has passed to the other side…’”

Peter used to wonder why he felt the need to lie to the dead about moving on, but over time he realised the answer: it was easier than the alternative.

pickarooney

Version 8

Ghost Ship

Mitchell Grant stared at the tattered piece of duct tape he had just pulled out of the propulsion engine and scratched his head. Tiny hairs from the morning’s crew cut rained down over his face. Glancing at the toolbox at his feet, he wondered how much duct tape his predecessor had left behind in the ship’s equipment. It was no good. He’d have to find all of it before the malfunctions or explosions started and left them stranded on this ancient piece of tin in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Cursing Gerry’s vices, Mitchell checked that the auxiliary equipment was stable and left the geriatric engine room. The job would require two pairs of hands. And it would be preferable if those hands were attached to two sober bodies. But Gerry had the nasty habit of consuming all of his contraband spirits within days of boarding a new ship, and Mitchell knew he would find him in a deserted hold in a state of advanced inebriation.

On this under-crewed vessel, it was easy for Gerry to hide the fact that he spent the better part of his watch nursing a hangover. They had left port with a handful of Navy men and an unusually large contingent of lieutenants. As the only engineers on board, Mitchell and Gerry had received clear orders: keep the damn ship moving. Simple enough, under normal circumstances. The damn ship had probably seen World War I.

Mitchell jogged down the long passageway, stopping to poke his head inside the half-dozen holds. No Gerry. He hurried to the sleeping quarters, thankful for not crossing paths with other crewmen. Gerry’s bunk was empty. Mitchell turned and headed for the mess decks.

The mess decks had quickly become his least favourite place. The way the lieutenants congregated around the centre table and pored over top secret files out in the open made him very uneasy. They were like the cool kids flaunting their popularity in the faces of their social underlings. And from their usual spot at the dimly-lit table in the corner, Mitchell and Gerry could see they were at the bottom of the need-to-know list.

But last night, the lieutenants’ absence had been glaring. Come to think of it, Mitchell hadn't seen anyone since relieving the young Davies for the afternoon watch. And now Gerry.

On the mess decks, abandoned chairs and empty tables loomed out at Mitchell. They seemed to pulse with silence as he strained his ears, desperate for the sound of footsteps on the metal grid of the nearby stairs, the resounding clang of a hatch door closing, the nervous peel of laughter from the officer who should have been at his post in the scullery. There was nothing but the distant whirr of propellers.

He would go straight to the bridge. Dread mounted in his throat as he emerged into the saline air and clambered up the stairs to the flight deck. A half-sun swam on the horizon, its fiery light reflected on the windowed tower of the bridge.

At the top of the stairs, he froze, his eyes wide at the sight of the sleek, black helicopter sticking out like a sore thumb on the helipad’s weathered boards. It was as silent and empty as the ship.

He padded over to the door leading to the staterooms, thinking it safer to approach the bridge from there in case he needed to make a quick escape. Quiet as a mouse, he inched down the L-shaped passageway, then stopped as he turned the corner, his muscles tensing at the sound of a female voice coming from the chaplain’s stateroom three doors away.

“Got ourselves a ghost ship,” said the voice.

Mitchell crept towards the door, careful not to be seen, until he got a partial view of the cabin’s interior. A small redhead sat at the chaplain’s desk, her fingers dancing on a laptop’s keyboard.

“Not a trace this time,” she said, her tone light, almost gleeful. She scanned the instruments scattered around her computer and picked up something resembling an oversized walkie-talkie. Her mouth widened into a satisfied smile before she turned towards the bunk beds at the back of the small room. “Not a single living organism, micro or otherwise. Except for us, of course.”

Mitchell edged closer to the door.

A burly man in black fatigues was sprawled out on the top bunk, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Definitely an improvement over last time’s rather explosive results,” he said.

The woman wrinkled her nose.

The man hopped off the bed, grabbed a laptop bag off the floor and dumped it on the desk. “Pack up your baubles. Let’s get out of here.”

One of the instruments emitted a staccato crackle, and the woman shot an alarmed look at her companion, who pulled his gun out of its holster and spit out his cigarette.

Mitchell cringed back against the wall and slunk away, heart pounding, sweat beginning to trickle down over his temples. If he ran, they would hear him. If he tried to back away quietly, he would never make it around the corner before they emerged.

A black boot appeared over the door’s high threshold.

Mitchell squared his shoulders. It was too late, and he turned to face the man. The side of a bald head protruded out the hatch as the man checked that the coast was clear. Then he stepped out into the passageway and spun in Mitchell’s direction.

His hands in the air to show he wasn’t armed, Mitchell stared him down, refusing to let his gaze flicker down to the barrel of the gun that was pointed at his chest. The man advanced on him, his face hard, dark eyes narrowed.

From inside the hatch, the woman scanned her surroundings with the offending instrument, its frenetic hissing and beeping echoing down the narrow hall. It gave one last keening screech before a volley of sparks exploded out the back panel, and the woman dropped it to the floor, where it clanked and spluttered into a smoking mess of melted plastic and protruding wires.

The man in black spun around, pointing his weapon at the other end of the passageway, then wheeled back to Mitchell. Satisfied that his target hadn’t moved, he returned to the hatch to inspect the angry, bubbling welt on his companion’s palm. Before stepping inside, he gave the woman his gun. White-faced and shaky, she held the weapon in her good hand, leaning against the frame of the hatch, her eyes darting from Mitchell to the closed doors around her.

Judging by the banging and clattering, the man was making quick work of packing up. He reappeared seconds later with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, traded a silver case for his gun and began walking towards Mitchell.

Mitchell dropped his hands to his sides and stared at a distant point at the other end of the passageway, standing at attention, waiting for the order to follow them or the bullet to the brain.

They were five steps away. Mitchell’s stomach churned. Four. The woman’s fashionable sneakers squeaked on the freshly polished floor. Three. The man readjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder. Two. Mitchell gritted his teeth. One. They walked right through him.

pickarooney

Version 8

THE CAPTAIN

Port is in sight. ETA forty minutes. Only forty minutes until those three aren’t my responsibility any more. I’ll be able to hand them over and have nothing more to do with them. It is perfectly calm now. Hard to believe that less than twenty four hours ago it was blowing hurricane force and there was next to no visibility. Five out of seven was a good result. In fact in the circumstances it was a bloody miracle. If they had proper survival suits they might have got them all but if those poor b*****ds were working for the sort of people who cared about health and safety they wouldn’t have been in the water in the first place.

The chopper took two injured men back to hospital. One of them was pretty bad but they reckon he’ll make it. They left the other three with us. You can say what you like about those arrogant chopper crews, and nobody says more about them than I do, but you have to admit they have nerve and skill. They hadn’t a hope of landing on deck the way we were being tossed around but they dropped each of those lads with hardly a bruise. Just exposure, not even full blown hypothermia. Those lads are tough. Put one of us in that water and we wouldn’t last more than ten minutes but they had been in it over half an hour. The exposure is easily dealt with. Get them into dry clothes, into the heat and warm them up slowly. It’s tempting to do it fast but if you take your time and they’re grand before you know it. Like I said, they’re tough.

We’re not exactly sure where they are from. Not a word of English between them although they have picked up ‘thank you’ since they came on board and they say it over and over. They have a bit of Russian and Moriarty, my first mate, knows some and has been talking to them, helped by a phrase book, Google translate and a lot of sign language. There is a Russian translator waiting for them and she will probably find them someone who speaks their own language, whenever they figure out what it is. We showed them a map and one of them pointed to somewhere in the old USSR; one of the stans, Uzbekistan or Tajikistan. It must be a thousand miles or more from the ocean. How on earth did they end up in the Atlantic? Wherever it is there will be somebody who speaks their language in Cork. There always is. It might be a professor or a cleaner but there is always somebody and they can always find them.

With a full crew we can speak a fair few languages; Spanish of course, French, German, Italian, a bit of Russian and even a little Mandarin. Chinese is the language of the future, the one we should be teaching our children. Apart from the cupla focail I only have English myself. We did Latin when I was at school and that hasn’t been too much use over the years. The fellows we encounter haven’t had a classical education. Most of them don’t have much formal education of any kind. They attend the School of Hard Knocks and graduate from the University of Life. I’ve never had any difficulty communicating with any of the dozens of different nationalities I’ve come across. When somebody has just escaped death they won’t want anything more from you. If you give them food, shelter and a chance to let their loved ones know they are alive it is a big bonus. You don’t have to throw in conversation as well.

One of the lads, the youngest, he can’t be more than nineteen or twenty, has pretty bad rope burns. We dressed them as best we could. We don’t have a medic on board even though I’m always saying we should but who ever listen to me? You hear the expression ‘holding on for dear life’ and you think it is just an expression until you see a man doing just that, holding on to the rope that pulled him out of the water, not able to let it go even when he knew he was safe. The rope had cut through the flimsy gloves he was wearing and was cutting into his hands and arms but he wouldn’t let it go, couldn’t let it go. We cut away as much as we could and in the end his mate slowly prised the fingers off one by one. It seemed to take forever. He didn’t even whimper when the first aider cleaned it up as best he could, fibres still embedded into the flesh. I suppose he was still in shock. Turns out his brother is one of the missing men. Not a hope of finding him now, not even the chance of getting the body.

I arranged for a chopper to fly him ashore as soon as it calmed and we tried to explain the plan to him but before we even had the Russian word, as soon as he heard ‘helicopter’ and saw the mime of the propellers he freaked. We might not have understood the words but we knew he wouldn’t be getting on a chopper unless we knocked him out, BA Baracus style. It didn’t seem worth it for the sake of a few hours so I just waved my arms, drew a rough helicopter and put an X through it. He calmed down right away and I went and stood down the chopper. I told him it would be at least sixteen hours before we got into port, drawing the figures on a clock face, but he didn’t seem to care how long it would take.

In fact we’ve done it in less than fourteen hours. The first mate wasn’t too happy with my instruction to proceed full speed ahead. Usually we would set an easy pace and let as many of the crew as possible rest after a night like that. “What’s your hurry Captain?” she asked.

“I have an injured man on board. If gangrene sets in and he loses his fingers it will be my fault for not getting him ashore sooner.”

“You tried, Captain. We all saw he didn’t want to leave.”

“He was in no state to make a rational decision. It was my call and it is my responsibility.”

“You made the right call. A man can have superhuman strength when he is hysterical. Somebody could have been hurt.”

“Do you know what survivor guilt is Moriarty?” I asked her.

“Aye Captain. That lad feels guilty that he lived when his brother died. Everybody knows it isn’t his fault, there was nothing he could do, but he’ll carry it with him for the rest of his life.”

“Aye, it’s a funny kind of thing. The living feeling guilty because they aren’t dead.”

pickarooney

Version 8

Balancing the Books
Daragh looked down over the murky black waters at the waves smashing against the hull. He thought of his childhood, of his Father and the other fishermen who would sit in pubs that stank of pipe smoke, sea air, rotting fish and the toil of a long day, they would warn of good people lost at sea, of fisherman but also landed people, the stories of coffin ships, the Titanic and something called the Bermuda triangle. When his Father was in the company of other fishermen, he would say, and they would nod wisely in agreement, ‘If you ever for a second forget that the sea is the boss, you’ll be fucked.’ Then someone would quip ‘A bit like the wife!’ and the whole place would be in stitches. When his Father would tell his Mother these stories, she would get upset, and Daragh would see the worry in his Mother’s eye and he wanted to tell her that even as big and powerful as the sea was, it would never challenge his Father who Daragh was pretty sure was the reincarnation Cú Chulainn himself.

When anyone died in the sea anywhere on the east coast they would attend the funeral. Even if they did not know the people, his Father would insist. His Mother would be so affected by the funerals. She would wipe away tears and cling onto Daragh, seeking some sort of solace from him. Often in the days after the funeral she would take to her bed. She said it was because she was so sad for the widow. ‘What if it was you?’ She would ask Daragh’s Father when he pleaded with her to get up. Daragh never heard his Father’s answer. At a funeral for Dessie, a fisherman Daragh’s Father had been very friendly with, Daragh had watched his Mother as she went to give her condolences to the widow. Her thin body had been bent with grief that didn’t belong to her. Daragh searched the crowd for his Father and spotted him staring over, watching as his Mother moved gently through the crowd wiping tears from her eyes. Daragh wondered about the look on his Father’s face, he looked sad and afraid, and Daragh didn’t know why. He put the look to the back of his mind and focused his gaze back on his Mother, her head bent as she listened to the tears and muffled sobs of the widow. When his Father went fishing the next day, Daragh climbed into bed with his Mother, and thought about the sea. ‘Mam?’ He had said, nudging her with his elbow, she didn’t say anything but he knew she was listening. ‘I was thinking, that maybe sometimes the sea needs to balance it’s books.’ She sat up slowly, looking at him. ‘See, I think that for all the life that we take out of the sea some of it needs to be returned.’ He glanced at his Mother before continuing, ‘So I’ve decided I’m not going to catch the crabs on the beach anymore and that way,’ He smiled at her, ‘The sea won’t need to settle up with Dad.’ His Mother had smiled her crooked smile back at him and placed a soft hand against his cheek, ‘Such a sweet boy.’ She hugged him close and whispered ‘I think the sea might need something more then a few crabs, just to be safe.’

Daragh took a deep breath, emerging from the memory, but from where he stood, under the large and garishly painted chimney stacks billowing smoke around him he could hardly even smell the sea. The smell was so masked that he could have been standing anywhere, the only clue was the gentle dipping and rising of the boat. Daragh loved the smell of the sea and it was the reason he settled in Looe, Cornwall. In the mornings he would take the dogs for a walk on the beach and as they bounded around, digging holes and running in and out of the water, Daragh would simply close his eyes and inhale deeply and all of a sudden he would be back in his Mother’s kitchen, watching as she gutted the pollack his Father had just brought home. She hated cutting the heads off, and so she would hold her breath, turning the fish away from her so she didn’t have to see it’s eyes, and she would snap the knife down, using the edge of the blade to flick the head into the bin in one smooth motion. She always hummed to herself when preparing the dinner, sometimes if she was in particularly good form she would take Daragh’s hand, pulling him up from the table for a clumsy waltz around the kitchen. It was funny really, his Father was a fisherman, yet when he smelled the sea air Daragh always thought of his Mother. He was always reminded of his Father when the ships came in and the smell of the sea was clouded under a stench of petrol and energy, just like standing on the deck now, with the chimneys above him. The smell made him conjure up the day his life changed. Only a few short days after Desie’s funeral, Daragh stood in the kitchen with his Father, the smell of oil and fish radiating off the man, his hands on Daragh’s shoulder, telling him something important, Daragh had just stared at his Father’s moving lips, and had heard nothing. Daragh remembered little of the following days. Just flashes, the sympathetic looks, the murmuring of condolences, the priest standing at the edge of the sea blessing her, blessing them all, no body, no grave, an announcement carried in the Indo, the words accident, loss, Mother. Maybe it was all he cared to remember.

It felt to him as if she had vanished. One day the house had been filled with music, laughter and warmth, the next it was stuffed with the grunting of his Father, chopping and gutting the fish as if they had done something to offend him. Later that year as Daragh walked through the town on his way home from school, he heard his Mother’s name mentioned in the same sentence as that word. Two older women stood pretending not to look at him, he walked towards them, intent on correcting them, telling them it had been an accident, but as he moved towards them, he panicked. What if they were right? So he ran. ‘What happened to Mam?’ Daragh asked as soon as he was through the kitchen door. His Father said nothing and Daragh had raised his voice to ask again. Still, his Father said nothing, he didn’t even turn around. ‘Answer me you bastard!’ Daragh had screamed. All of a sudden, his Father had turned and in one quick motion Daragh was pinned against the kitchen door. Daragh suddenly thought of the story of Cú Chulainn killing his son and the glimmer in his Father’s wild eyes, made Daragh afraid. Just as suddenly as he had grabbed Daragh his Father let him go. Daragh slumped to the floor as his Father spoke calmly, ‘You will not raise your voice to me in my house. Your Mother is gone. That is all that matters.’ Daragh started to cry, bringing his knees up to his chest as the sobs tore through this body. When his Father spoke again his voice was thick with emotion. ‘You remember, all the dancing, and the laughing. That’s what I want you to remember of her. I want you to think of her as happy, loving, wonderful.’ With a soft sigh his Father reached out a hand and lifted Daragh’s chin from his knees and spoke, ‘She was sick Son. We tried to keep it from you, and I thought she was getting better, but in the weeks before...’ His Father paused, clearing his throat, ‘Before it happened, she wasn’t happy. Do you remember Dessie’s funeral? It wasn’t normal, even for her. She was distraught, crying all the time, murmuring about debts to be paid, maybe I should have done more, but I thought that it would pass like the other times.’ He paused. ‘It didn’t pass though, did it?’ Daragh looked into his Father’s eyes and reached out a hand and gently placed it on his Father’s shoulder. His Father looked at him, tears streaming freely down it’s face, bending his forehead to his Daragh’s, he locked their heads together and whispered. ‘I promise, if it takes the rest of my life, I will find her.’ They had sat like that, heads locked for hours. A promise was made and true to his word his Father went out every morning and trawled the sea for her. Daragh knew it wasn’t healthy, but for years he said nothing, selfishly wanting his Father to keep the promise he made.

Daragh tore his eyes away from the sea and his mind back to the present, looking at the people working along the deck. He couldn’t believe he was on a boat, but yet it seemed fitting considering the late night call. Daragh had stood by the harbour in Looe, where he now called home, and asked if anyone could handle an extra passenger, all he needed was to get across the Irish sea. Eventually, he found himself in an old boat that had seen better days. It was a former auxiliary vessel to the Red Cross, the Captain had boasted proudly, his eyes turned upwards to the sky. The Captain kept the painted helicopter pad, as a memory of days passed, good and bad. Daragh imagined that the Captain was searching the skies hoping that a helicopter might magically appear and wish to land, perhaps with wounded so the Captain could reprise his role as a hero. Daragh thought of the things men will do to remember better times. He thought of his Father. As the years had passed with no sign of his Mother’s body, his Father had not relented, even when Daragh begged. Daragh had left when it all became too much. He left his Father, a Captain on a sinking ship, afraid that if he stayed much longer he would go down as well. He had tried to explain it and his Father said he understood, he nodded and told his son to go, to live his life. Daragh had sent cards, letters, photos, anything he could think of to pull the old man back to reality. He never heard anything. He kept in touch with the publican in the town, who informed him every so often with a letter or a phone call that his Father was still alive, still drinking, still fishing and still searching. Years passed and although he still sent the cards, the letters and the photographs, he had no expectations. He signed everything with his address, his phone number, but he stopped begging for contact. In twenty years he had heard nothing and honestly, had given up.

Daragh surveyed the boat again. It wasn’t really suitable for fishing, at least not to Daragh’s eyes, but according to the crew the Captain meant well and as long as he kept paying them, they felt the Captain could do whatever thing he wanted, including using the old medical boat. Daragh had felt the same about his Father, he meant well, so he left him to it. The shrill cries of the seagulls and the juddering of the boat told him without looking that they had docked. It had been nearly twenty years since he had stood in this harbor. As he disembarked he moved towards the man he came to see. Daragh stood in front of the old man. His Father reached out to him, embracing him, and whispering in his ear the same thing he had said on the phone last night, the thing that had brought Daragh home. ‘I found her.’ Daragh clung to his Father and thought once more of the sea and the balancing of the books.

pickarooney

Version 8

Blearily, the man opened his eyes. He pushed himself into a seated position, and took stock of his five senses. Sight: Blinking slowly, he looked around the room. From circular windows high on one wall, six spears of light cut a swathe through the darkness. The man could make out shapes on the ground, unmoving. Hearing: Just the generators. This must be the engine room. Touch: The floor was bare metal, cold to the touch. Taste: He probed his mouth with his tongue - a missing tooth, the metallic taste of blood. Smell: Oil and death.

He added one more sense to the list. Feeling: He felt like shit. He had never been shot before, but he instinctively knew that the sharp pain below his left shoulder was a bullet wound. He couldn't remember being shot.

He felt his way along the wall until he found the door. Pulling on the handle, he was surprised to find that the door opened. He carefully looked outside and saw nobody around. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see. They were still at sea. Experience told him that they were travelling about twenty knots. He had no concept of how much time had passed. The sun was low in the sky, so it was either sunrise or sunset. Since the deck was warm under his bare feet and there was some warmth in the air, he went with sunset.

The smell of cigarette smoke hit his nostrils, and he looked around for the source. Around the corner and ten feet away, a man was casually propped against the railings on the port side, looking out to sea. He was wearing a khaki shirt, knee length shorts and was in his bare feet. Strapped over his shoulder was an assault rifle. Sneaking up on him was easy, but tossing him overboard took some effort, especially with his shoulder wound. Still, he had to even the odds somehow. With his weak arm, be pressed against the man’s neck, while his other arm scooped him up by his shins. Up and over. By the time he surfaced, the boat was out of earshot.

Goddamn pirates. Earlier that day, they left Madagascar and set course for the Mediterranean via the Suez Canal. They were a party liner - a vessel hired by anyone who could afford it. For this voyage, they had one VIP (some tech mogul) and his entourage - about fifteen people in total - twenty seven on board including crew. While approaching the Gulf of Aden on the north coast of Somalia, they received a distress call. Common sense told them that there was a good chance it wasn't genuine. Seafaring etiquette told them they should check it out. They should have listened to common sense. Before they knew what hit them, they were boarded by five heavily armed pirates. What happened after that was a blur. Some people tried to resist or hide. There was gunfire. Some were shot, some were possibly dead. The shapes in the engine room. He'd have to check on them later.

Now four remained, and he had to figure out where they were. Someone had to be on the bridge, steering the ship. He needed to be sure. A voice snapped him out of his thought process. It was a woman's voice, and she was calling out for someone. The name sounded like Abdi. Not someone on the crew manifest, not a guest. There was a strong possibility that Abdi was the gentleman doing a doggy paddle in the wake of the ship, which meant that this woman was not friendly.

The voice came from the starboard side, so he had to think fast. Using makeshift footholds on the port side of the engine room, he silently climbed to the roof. The stacks blocked line of sight to the bridge, so he was hoping he wouldn't be seen by whoever was steering. Keeping low, he looked over the far side to see a woman with a shaved head, inked sleeves and a big gun. She opened the door to the engine room and went inside. The man had to think fast. Inside a hatch on the roof was a fire extinguisher. Full and heavy. It would have to do. He waited on the roof above the door for the woman to come out. She came out in a hurry, aware that there was one less body in the engine room. She reached for a walkie talkie. He had to act fast - he only had one shot at this. As hard as he could, he threw the fire extinguisher at the woman and jumped after it. The canister hit her hard at the back of her neck and she fell towards the railing, doubling up over the top rail. He used her momentum to push her over. She didn't know what hit her. At least now she'll have a better chance of finding Abdi. Two down.

A hiss of static made him look down. The woman had dropped her walkie. A voice spoke. A foreign language. He didn't understand what the voice was saying, but it got more agitated the longer it went unanswered. He heard what sounded like orders being barked and knew he'd have company soon. He picked up the walkie and threw it into the open engine room. Then he picked up his trusty fire extinguisher and climbed back to the roof. Here we go again.

This time it wasn't going to be so easy. He heard two voices, one on the port side and one on the starboard.

"Abdi! Nadifa!"

The man on the port side was closer. He was alternating between calling out and speaking into his radio. He stopped in his tracks when he heard his own voice echoed back from behind the engine room door. He called out for his colleague and the two men met outside the door. They had a wordless exchange, nodding their heads, and the port guy went in first.

This was his one and only chance to get the upper hand. He was making this up as he went along, but he was out of options. The port guy was now inside the engine room and the starboard guy was outside about to go in. It was now or never. He jumped off the roof sideways, bringing his fire extinguisher down hard on the head of the starboard guy. His gun went off. The man scrambled to grab the starboard guy's gun and brought it to bear on the port guy. What the....? All he saw inside were the shapes on the ground. He checked the shapes closest to the door and saw that port guy was a victim of unfriendly fire, a bloody halo spreading around his head.

The man stepped out into the waning light, walked over to the railing and dry heaved over the edge. He hadn't eaten all day and his stomach was empty. He spat acid bile into the water below. He felt a cold chill on the back of his neck when he realised that the ship was no longer being propelled forward - it was drifting.

He turned to arm himself with starboard guy's gun, only to find himself face to face with the last pirate. He was a big bald man with aviator sunglasses and a five inch height advantage. He was wearing a pristine white vest and had a bodybuilder's physique underneath it.

Shit.

"Who are you?"

Stilted english. Not his native tongue. As if to add emphasis to the question, he punctuated it with a punch to the man's shoulder wound.

"Wait, I know you. You gave me shit when we boarded". He smiled, a mixture of gold and white teeth. "How's the shoulder?"

When the man didn't answer, the smile disappeared.

"Where are my brother and sister?"

Another punch to the shoulder.

The man realised that his only way out of this was to use the pirate's size against him. Unfortunately, that meant making him angry.

"They weren't invited guests on this voyage, so they had to be removed from this vessel. My vessel. That guy over there" - nodding his head towards the guy outside the engine room - "might be OK. He'll have a nasty headache. The guy inside won't be coming out. Abdi is probably five miles back by now, and Nadifa? Was that her name? Maybe four. I hope they're good swimmers."

The pirate bared his teeth and creased his face in rage. With a feral roar, he lunged at the captain, who sidestepped, ducked and rolled under the pirate's reach and grabbed the fire extinguisher. He flipped the release, aimed it at the pirate and pulled the trigger. The pirate got a face full of foam and gas. Startled, he clutched his face and staggered backwards towards the railing. The captain stood up and smashed the fire extinguisher into the pirate's face, breaking his sunglasses and nose with one blow. Tapping his final reserves of strength, he slammed the canister lengthways into the man's chest and pushed the giant over the railing.

It was over.

He set course for Sharm el-Sheikh and waited a few miles before cutting the pirate's boat adrift. The starboard guy was dead - the fire extinguisher had caved in his skull. After checking the engine room, he found that there were five other fatalities - three crew members who gave up their lives trying to protect the vessel and two guests who were in the wrong place at the wrong time during the initial chaos. Everyone else in there had been gagged and bound. They must have thought he was dead from his bullet wound and didn't bother to do the same to him. The motive behind the attack was money - the vested pirate had told the tech mogul that he would fetch a sizeable ransom.

The captain decided there and then that this wouldn't deter him from his business or his passion. As the last shard of sunlight faded on the African horizon, he longed for the embrace of his wife and daughter.

pickarooney

Version 8

"I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen," the Navy Lieutenant said as we sat on the ferry’s open deck. "I’ve got to check everybody. You know that as well as I do." He wrapped his fingers tight around the safety rail as the ferry rocked beneath him and looked at our pathetic group of survivors. "No contagion allowed. So who wants to go first?"

He waited a moment as the freezing, night time wind whipped across the groaning deck. Nobody volunteered but he didn’t seem surprised.

"All right," he said at last, nodding to the nearest passenger. "You just volunteered."

Mr. Norris, whom I had known only half an hour, shook his head. "I did no such thing," he said, pushing his shoulders back as far as they would go. He was a stocky man and wore a stained business suit with bloodied grey slacks. "I’ll no more let you strip search me than I’d—"

"This is for your own safety," the Lieutenant interrupted. "If we let those—"

"My safety is not the issue," Norris replied. "It’s the principle of the thing. It’s a violation of my civil—"

"Sir—"

"—my civil rights, and I’ll—"

"Sir, if you don’t submit, I will shoot you."

Norris stopped mid sentence in stunned silence. Even in the darkness, I could see the anger begin to colour his face. For one blessed moment, he remained silent.

From my seat near the engine block, I sighed. "Just do it for Christ sake," I said.

Both Norris and the Lieutenant turned towards me. We hadn’t eaten in days and I wanted nothing more than to get moving.

Norris’s lip curled into a snarl and he began to shake with anger.

"Very well," he said, looking back to the Lieutenant. "But how do we know you and Phillips—"

As he argued, I examined Norris’s wide frame and wondered how he had survived the Rising for so long. By pure Darwinism he should have died on the first day.

"The skipper and I have already been checked," the Lieutenant said. "Two days ago, he docked with my ship and was thoroughly examined before the Captain let him aboard."

The Lieutenant’s ship -- HMS Thermopile – was a nuclear carrier, stocked with enough food and water to last years. It was our Babylon, our Arcadia.

Suddenly, Norris’s eyes widened. "All right," he said, turning back towards me. "Him first," he said. "I won’t do it until this fellow does."

If he’d thought I would protest, he was wrong. I nodded, stood and helped my wife to her feet beside me. Then together, we walked towards the cabin.

The check took only a few minutes, seemed to make the Lieutenant more uncomfortable than it made either of us. We stripped and he examined every inch of our bodies for bite marks or other signs of infection. Finding none, he apologised and let us dress before calling in his truculent opponent.

After a few minutes, Norris stepped out of the cabin looking sullen. The Lieutenant followed him a few seconds later and scanned the deck for the final two passengers. After a moment, he saw the young woman and her infant son, huddled on the far side of the ferry, just beyond the bounds of the large helipad.

He waved his arms and called over the billowing winds. "You’re next, ma’am," he shouted and from her body language, it was clear the woman had heard him. Instead of replying though, she slid down to the deck and cowered into the bulkhead, her baby held close against her body.

The Lieutenant called again, but once more received no reply. He walked towards her, almost losing his balance as the ferry rocked in the storm. It had been designed for island hopping, not the open seas.

When he reached the young woman he knelt beside her. "Ma’am, I need to check you before we let you onto the ship. There are supplies there for you and baby, but we can’t allow any contagion. Do you understand?"

She looked at him shaking, her eyes filled with the thousand-yard stare of a shell-shocked soldier. He reached towards her.

"Ma’am—"

As soon as his hand touched her arm, she screamed, then tried to push herself away. Her legs flailed in the freezing water as it washed over the side of the deck.

"No!" she screamed. "Get away! Get away from my baby!"

Suddenly, she rolled away, using the rocking of the ferry to help her as she slid across the deck. The Lieutenant fell backwards and looked around for help.

At the far side of the ferry, Phillips, the skipper stepped down from the bridge. His eyes met the Lieutenant’s and the bearded old man shook his head. He stumbled across the deck, one hand pressing down on his cap as he moved.

"No luck," he shouted as soon as he came within earshot. "Weather’s knocked the damn radio out. Maybe you should have a look."

The Lieutenant nodded and stumbled towards the bridge, leaving Phillips to deal with the young mother who was now cowering nearby.

"There’s nothing to worry about," the old sea dog said as he approached. "I promise."

He moved towards her and put a hand on her shoulder. As he did, she spun in a panic. Once more the boat rocked, and she swung her open hand at the skipper’s face, scratching him with her sharp nails.

Phillips stumbled backwards in shock. Seeing this, Norris stood up and stepped forward.

"For Christ’s sake woman!" he roared, moving towards her. "Give him the bloody baby and get this damned thing over with!"

When he got no response, he looked around. "There’s something wrong here. You know it as well as I do," he said.

The skipper stumbled back to his feet, one hand still pressed against his bloodied face. Seeing this, Norris swore and lunged towards the woman. She screamed and fell backwards, her baby pressed against her breast.

"Norris!" the skipper roared and grabbed him by the shoulder. As he did, Norris turned and swung a fist. It connected with the skipper’s cheek. Phillips’ head cracked to the left and he collapsed, hitting the deck with a sickening splash.

Both my wife and I stood I ran to stop the crazed, violent maniac. As I neared him however, Norris reached into his coat and pulled a knife. He jumped forward, catching me by the wrist and spinning me round so the knife was at my throat.

The terrified mother screamed and Julia ran forward.

"Let him go, you bastard," she shouted, wiping the soaking wet hair from her face. "Let him go or I—"

"Drop the knife," somebody shouted over her shoulder.

She turned and saw that the Lieutenant had returned and had drawn his own weapon – a 9mm pistol – which was now aimed at Norris.

For a moment, nothing but the ship moved. Norris stared at the Lieutenant, then raised his hands to the air. He took a step backwards and released me and once free, I ran back towards Julia.

"Very well, very well," Norris said. He smiled and shook his head. "I just want to get this over with," he said. "No harm, no foul, what?"

He lowered his knife and slipped it back into his coat. The Lieutenant watched him move but kept the pistol trained on him the whole time. He looked to the gathering clouds overhead, and then back at the other passengers, then lowered the gun.

"It’s getting worse," he shouted to the skipper, who had regained his footing and now stood beside him.

Phillips nodded. "We’re still half an hour from the ship, but if this weather keeps up we’ll lose people overboard first. We need everybody into the cabin."

The Lieutenant nodded. "Anyone who’s been checked can go, but I can’t let—"

"For crying out loud, man," Phillips shouted. "She’s scared. After all the horror we’ve seen! -- Those creatures—"

"No exceptions!" the Lieutenant shouted. I could barely hear his voice over the wind. "She seems fine, but if she’s been—"

Suddenly, Norris was back on his feet.

"God damn you, we all know it’s the baby!" he cried. "Why else won’t she let you near her? It’s infected and for all we know so is she. Shoot the bitch and—"

"Enough!" the Lieutenant roared. "You two," he said, and turned to look at Julia and I. "Get inside. Norris, you too."

Grasping my wife by the hand, I hurried across the helipad, pausing only to glance from the Lieutenant to the young mother. Norris remained where he was, but the Lieutenant said nothing to him. Perhaps he knew the maniac was right.

"Skipper," the Lieutenant said as we passed. "Check the baby."

He raised his pistol once more, this time pointing it at the young mother, whose eyes rose to meet his. She shook in the freezing cold, her baby pressed even tighter against her body.

Phillips moved slowly forward. This time, she didn’t move.

As he reached her, however, the ferry gave one last heave. Its port side lurched ten feet as we reached the cabin, sending everyone on the deck flying through the air.

After a moment, the Lieutenant hit the deck, the mother landing on top of him. Her child sailed through the air and hit the deck with a sickening crunch. As they landed, a crack of lightening flashed across the sky and my stomach turned.

The baby, now free of its cowl, sprawled naked in the flotsam and in that split second of electric light, I had caught a horrifying glimpse of its un-dead face.

Somewhere nearby, Phillips roared in terror.

Almost before the light faded, Norris was on his feet, his knife once more in his hand.

Moments later however, another wave knocked him back. Before he could get up, the mother had scrambled across the deck and lunched for her child. A torrent of water swept over the side of the ferry, crashing down on top of them and sending everything sliding towards the cabin door.

Inside, Julia and I watched, helpless and terrified as the water carried the infant towards us. Behind us in the cabin, the radio crackled to life with a man’s voice, but we had no time to react.

The water hit the cabin wall and as it receded, I leapt through the door and lifted the child in my arms. Stumbling, I fell backwards and the mother dived into the cabin after me.

"No," she wailed. "No, no, no, please no!"

I held the child in my arms and after a moment, I realised it was not moving. It wasn’t undead – far from it. Nor had it drowned or died of the impact on the deck. In fact, it looked like it had been dead for several weeks.

The mother regained her feet and grabbed the limp body from me, and willingly I let it go.

Behind her, the Lieutenant, skipper and Norris all scrambled towards the cabin, but stopped as they saw the look of sadness on my face. It had been three weeks since the Rising, three weeks since society had collapsed, leaving only those at sea or able to barricade themselves against the apocalypse alive – and even then, only for as long as their supplies would last.

With the undead walking the streets, this woman had locked herself into her home and done her best to endure. She had survived, but her child had starved to death.

When Norris, the last of the others, passed me, I closed the cabin door. Everybody but the Lieutenant sank to the floor in silence.

The Lieutenant moved to the radio and pressed the transmit button.

"HMS Thermopale, this is the Island Ferry. All passengers safe and contaminant free," he said. He looked out the cabin window as he spoke, his eyes avoiding the weeping mother slumped in the corner.

pickarooney

Version 8

The sailors were giddily milling about on the deck. All except for Mohammed. That’s not to say he wasn’t excited, in fact, he had more reason to be excited than most. He was just trying not to let the nervous energy overtake him. He needed to be calm. He breathed in the salt sea air. He squinted up at the sky. The sun burned in the bare azure. He gazed at it like it was his first chance to see such a sight. Or his last.

That view was replaced and now he was looking at the deck of the ship and the large yellow ‘H’ painted upon it. He had been tripped on to his knees. He went to stand up, muttering a curse in Arabic. A rough hand was pushed down on his shoulder.
“Praying again Mohammed?” it was Liam. Why was he not surprised. The Irishman was grinning like a madman.
“I was praying that your dick gets shot off.” He replied as got to his feet.
“It’s a big enough target.” He shrugged “Like your nose.” He handed him his rifle and stepped back deftly as Mohammed mocked a stab with his bayonet.
“Are you ladies done tickling each other!” A roar came from behind them. They immediately snapped to attention. Back straight. Eyes ahead. Guns at their side.
Lieutenant Booth was eyeballing him. He concentrated on staring straight ahead. Meeting his gaze at this point was unwise.
“Do you know how important this day is!” The same monotone roar.
“Yes Sir!” Sound off like you got a pair.
“How important is this day sailor?”
“We have the honour of saluting the President Sir!”
“Are you worthy of such an honour?”
“I think so, Sir” He couldn’t reply with in the negative. He could not let himself be removed from this duty. This was a chance in a million.
“Then act like it!”
“Yes Sir!” Booth gave him one last, long glower, then marched off.
He let out a breath, not realising he had been holding it. He kept staring straight ahead as he knew Liam would be pulling a face to try and evoke some laughter.

Liam had always been a joker and didn’t seem to know when he went too far. He had gotten them into trouble more than a few times, luckily he was as skilled with extricating himself from trouble as he was at causing it. He wasn’t mad at the man. He couldn’t be. At naval school, where the rest of the recruits dubbed him Osama and ostracised him, Liam had taken him under his wing. Several times he had prevented him from being hospitalised by other sailors. He was the only infidel he had met who he truly considered a friend.

“Atten Hut!” It was the Lieutenant again. All the sailors lined up reflexively. The Admiral was here.
“Rear Admiral John” Booth announced as he stood still and saluted.
“At ease men!” The men relaxed ever so slightly. When an Admiral was present, ‘at ease’ never meant ‘at ease’.
“This is a special day.” He paused to let that sink in, then started to pace up and down “Due to significant victories in Afghanistan, our President is come to visit the soldiers and sailors that made those victories possible. As he is the President, we will be honouring him with a 21 gun salute. You men have been chosen for your exemplary service records….”

At this point Mohammed was no longer listening. He was under no illusion that this is why he was chosen. He had an unremarkable record. The real reason was that the ceremony was being televised so they wanted a couple of token sailors to even out the largely Caucasian crew. Ensign Wilkes was African American. Ensign Sakai was of Asian descent. And he himself, Mohammed Maliki, was an all-American Muslim. To show the world that they weren’t prejudiced, even as his Arab brethren were indiscriminately blasted off the earth.

He became aware that the Admiral had finished speaking and returned his salute in unison with the other men. The Admiral walked off but he and his colleagues had to stand in stiff formation as the President was landing. He could feel sweat drip down from his ceremonial hat and it was not all from the midday heat. He could hear the helicopter in the distance and as it drew close the engine noise built up to a rhythmic roar. His heart began to beat faster the louder and closer the sound became. He needed to stay calm. He starting praying silently. There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet……



The helicopter finally appeared, whipping the air into a frenzy as it landed. The camera crew came out first and started setting up to catch the welcoming ceremony. As the rotor blades spun to a standstill the President stepped out with a practised smile and wave, flanked by aides and Secret Service agents. Mohammed tried to examine the scene discretely. He couldn’t mess this up. Not now.

The Secret Service men at each side look relaxed. And they had reason to be. They were on friendly ground. Apart from the aides and the media personal that been searched and vetted, only naval officers were present. The only ones who had weapons apart from them were the sailors who would deliver the 21 gun salute and their guns contained blanks. Or so they thought. He had spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning and assembling his rifle that morning. While everyone else was busy with their own weapons he produced a single live round he had secreted about his person. He waited for one of his comrades to make a snap with their rifle, then chambered the bullet.
Clunk. Click
Locked and loaded.

Lieutenant Booth had appeared in front of them as a signal that the Presidential 21-gun salute would begin.
“READY!” the Lieutenant bellowed.
He was ready.
“AIM!”
The rifle was raised with sweaty palms.
“FIRE!”
The other men fired their rifles off to the side. Mohammed turned towards the President. He placed the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. He took careful aim at his target.
“Allahu Ackbar!” he screamed, echoing the battle cry of his fellow jihadists around the world. God is greatest.
He squeezed the trigger.
There was no recoil.
There was no sound.
Instead a small flag with ‘Bang’ written on it came out of the barrel and flapped limply in the breeze.

There was a moment of confused silence before the President turned and glared at the Admiral.
“Is this your idea of a joke?”
The look of bewilderment on the Admiral’s face told the Secret Service all they needed to know and within seconds two of the burly Secret Servicemen had rushed over to Mohammed. One pointed a gun to his head and the other knocked the rifle out of his hands and brought him to the ground. His chest was crushed beneath the agent's not inconsiderable weight as he was searched. There were voices shouting all around but Mohammed couldn’t make out any words. As the commotion erupted he realised that Liam had switched their rifles when he had tripped him. Just a prank. There was no way he could have known.

He was roughly stood up with his hands manacled behind his back and he was vaguely aware that he was being read his rights. One last glance at the sky. Clouds had crept across it and the sun was nowhere to be seen.

As he was being taken off by the military police he turned and saw Liam staring back mouth agape. Was he thinking of all those years he had spent befriending and protecting an enemy? Or maybe he was thinking that through one of his japes he had somehow managed to save the leader of his country. Mohammed couldn’t tell and likely he would never see him again. He felt a moment of sadness and he closed his eyes as they dragged him belowdecks.


He would not see Allah today.

pickarooney

Version 8

On Deck

It started off as a bit of a joke, as such things often do. Well, perhaps ‘joke’ isn’t quite the right word for something that was as malicious in its conception as it was devious in its execution …



Bernie had been nagging Brendan for months about building a deck. “Look at the wonderful view of the lake and the hills we have out there,” she pleaded, “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we had somewhere like the Joneses have next door to sit out on when the sun shines?”


And when would that be, Brendan wondered to himself. He could hardly remember the last time they’d had a dry summer, never mind one when the sun shone. As for keeping up with the bloody Joneses – wasn’t that just a bit too much of a cliché altogether?


“Think about all the barbecues we could have,” Bernie continued dreamily, trying (and failing) to tempt him. Hah, he countered (but only in his head), it was far from barbecues and decks that either he or Bernie was reared! Was the grand kitchen table he’d made for her thirty seven years ago not good enough anymore? As if he’d be bothered constructing garden fripperies – that was sissy stuff!



Ah no, if he was going to make anything at all now that he was retired, it would be a boat … maybe a barge … or a fishing vessel of some kind? He’d always wanted to fish … such a peaceful, silent pastime. But, he sighed (the only sound that passed his lips), there was just never enough time or money. Now there was time alright – but the money was even tighter on a pension. He was damned if he was going to waste either in a competition with his neighbours. Frugal and careful, that was his motto.



He was raking in the cow manure for the spuds at the bottom of the garden next day when Harry Jones hailed him from across the fence. “That’s a strong smell there, mate … I hope it tones down a bit by tomorrow. We’re having a bit of a cook-out … just me and the better half,” he tagged on hastily.


Brendan grunted something nondescript and spat to the one side. He enjoyed ramping up the coarseness, knowing how much it offended Harry. Should have stayed in Southampton then, or wherever it was he came from, Brendan thought petty-mindedly … coming over here putting fancy notions into Bernie’s head and destroying his peace.



And here was the posh wife, Eleanor, tippeting in the garden gate, done up to the nines in high heels and make-up … on a Saturday afternoon, no less! He watched as she picked her way over the gravel path to the back door, clutching an envelope. No doubt more daft ideas and recipes for Bernie to torture his retirement! How he wished the Joneses had never discovered the vacant plot beside him that allowed them to build the ‘perfect little country retreat’.


“Did you know that Harry used to be a sea captain, Brendan?” Bernie asked him rhetorically (all of Bernie’s questions were rhetorical lately). Hmmph, what was that to him, Brendan thought, hiding behind the paper? “But he was invalided out a few years ago – a dreadful accident with a helicopter on board ship,” Bernie continued her monologue. “He hasn’t been the same since, Eleanor says. It seems he has a bit of a phobia about ships and helicopters now – that’s why he loves it so much at the lake.” “Not much chance of seeing any of them thingsround here, is there?” she laughed.

That ‘conversation’ played on his mind over the next few days but he couldn’t for the life of him think why. He wasn’t even remotely interested in any kind of friendship with Harry Jones and he had no interest in his life – either before or after he came to live here in this remote corner of Ireland. The only thing he wanted from the Joneses was to see the back of them. Flicking through his ‘Build your Own Boat’ magazine, a picture leaped off the page. Suddenly, it occurred to him why the conversation had caught his attention and he grinned malevolently to himself …


“You’re in good form, Brendan,” Bernie remarked a week later, “and you seem to be very busy in the shed. What are you making down there, anyway?” she enquired curiously. He tapped the side of his nose and grunted. Really, Bernie thought crossly, he seemed to have lost the ability to speak properly since he retired – but maybe she should be thankful for small mercies. At least he seemed more cheerful than usual – and he was out from under her feet.



Oh, but she’d miss Eleanor next week when she and Harry went off for a holiday to England. Ah, holidays, she thought wistfully and wondered if there was any chance she could persuade Brendan to consider a few days away. Even a night in Dublin would be better than nothing! She dragged out the saucepans and rummaged for one of the new recipes that Eleanor had brought over. Maybe if she made him a fancy dinner he’d be persuaded to think about a break away? It was worth a try.


Brendan took one look at the rice and mushroom concoction that Bernie put in front of him that evening and knew he was doing the right thing. What the hell was wrong with bacon and cabbage, or Irish stew, he thought balefully? He picked through the anaemic-looking dish but there was no sign of any meat in there whatsoever. He got up from the table in disgust. On his way back to the shed, he grabbed a hunk of cheese from the fridge. Bernie sighed and threw the dinner into the bin. Ah well, maybe she’d go and visit her sister for a few days. By herself!


Ah, the peace and quiet of life on your own! Brendan sat back to admire the workmanship of his latest creation. With both Bernie and the Joneses away, he was flying through his plan – even the paint … yellow, white, blue and red … was all ready to apply. He’d have to get a move on now, though. Harry Jones was due back late tonight. As luck would have it, Harry’s wife was staying away for another few days, too.


Fortunately, Bernie was still at her sister’s – he knew he’d have had trouble with his plan if she’d been around. He rubbed his hands in glee. With no other neighbours (the beauty of living in a remote area) Brendan was able to complete the stunt uninterrupted. By nightfall, everything was ship-shape and ready for action. Brendan chuckled at his own wit and rubbed his hands in glee.


He set fire to the brazier around 9 o clock and stood back to view the effect – it was perfect. There was still enough light to see the hills and the lake stretching away into the distance. He plugged in the CD player and switched on the sound effects. God, it was remarkable how realistic it all was! He’d been wasted as a county council clerk for all those years. He shivered with excitement and barely concealed his impatience. He’d be staying up late to watch the show, so he installed himself at the shed window with a flask and some sandwiches.


Harry Jones stepped out through the French doors, weary but glad to be home at last. Immediately, he was sucked back in time. The horror of it all … the ship’s railings … the thick black smoke rising from the engine house … the whirr of the helicopter coming in to land on the huge painted H beneath his feet. Oh Jesus, he was going to die this time, he knew it … and he was right. Clutching his chest, he fell onto the polished deck, writhing in pain. His eyes, though dimming, still searched the sky for the slicing blades until his heart gave out.


Brendan stood watching, transfixed by the awfulness that had unfolded in front of him. Christ, it was only supposed to be a joke! He rushed onto the deck and his worst fears were confirmed. Harry Jones was definitely dead. Oh God …! Oh God ..! What will you do now, Brendan, you bloody idiot, he dithered frantically inside his head, physically dancing with indecision.


Pull yourself together, man! Get rid of the evidence! That’s the job … scrub the big H off first! … Now for the engine and the railings … that’s it … over the fence they go! Time for the bloody brazier now! F*ck, it was hot! He licked his burnt fingers. No, you can’t leave it there – get on with it, he harangued himself silently.


Wrapping his coat sleeves around his hands, he tried again. He’d just managed to get it back into his own garden when the material of his coat ignited. The flames licked up his arms, consuming his shirt. Brendan Walsh found his voice - at last - and screamed loudly, “HELP … please, somebody HELP!” But there was no one to hear … such a remote area …


Bernie and Eleanor lay sipping cocktails out on the deck the following summer. It was a gloriously hot day and they both wore swimsuits and sun hats. “I still can’t get over the fact that we became widows on the same night,” Bernie mused. “I’ll never understand what Brendan was doing out at that hour of night burning rubbish. He was usually so careful.”


“And what was that wooden structure he had built?” Eleanor asked, not for the first time. “That blue and red thing with the chimneys on top?” Bernie shrugged, equally puzzled and then pointed languidly to the front of the cruise ship, the one that was now transporting them blissfully around the Med.


“It looked a bit like that, didn’t it?” she laughed. “But my Brendan had no imagination at all … though I’m sure he’d be pleased to see me out here now … using the insurance money to get a good hot roasting in the sun,” she added incongruously, before lying back in contentment. This was so much better than any deck at home …

--Kaiser--

Version 6

Version 5
Excellent start and very compelling throughout, nice flashes of humour here and there. Instantly leapt out as the best so that's what I voted for.

Version 4
Too long winded. honestly it felt a bit of a chore to get through those meandering paragraphs and couldn't retain interest.

Version 6
This one read a bit too much like a film screenplay for my liking.

Version 1
The fantastical concept wasn't enough to sustain my interest throughout. Most of it was dialogue and the dialogue needed a bit of work.

Please let me know if these comments are too vague, rude or unhelpful

Mr E

Version 7

Great job all round. The standard was excellent all round.
I picked out three that stood out for me.

Version 1: I liked this a lot. I can't say that I understood the technology, but it was a fun story and Peter was a well written asshole.

Version 2: Very accomplished writing. I kind of twigged how it might end early on, but it didn't stop me enjoying it.

Version 6: My third choice. I liked the idea and the revelation. Felt like a smaller part of a bigger story that I would really like to read.

OwaynOTT

Version 2

1 - a very interesting character and love love to read more about him.

Mr E

Version 7

Just in case it's not obvious, the poll is multi-select. You can choose more than one.

pickarooney

Version 8

It took me a while to get through these and a couple stood out as needing a second read so inevitably these ones made it to the top of the list.

There really was very little to choose between most of these and there isn't a single weak entry. There's also not one real stand-out story this time around.

I've voted for 1, 6 and 7 but I have to go. I'll leave extended comments later...

PurpleBee

Version 8

The two that held my interest all the way to the end were 1 and 7. For me 1 definitely had the most interesting structure and was the best written but he subject matter wasn't of enough personal interest to make it my clear favourite.

I felt there was too much emphasis on action! rather than the writing that delivered it in many of the entries. I would have liked an entry without guns or where no one had to die in the end.

Mikey23

Version 2

Terrific writing, well done to all who put so much time into their pieces. My favorite three were:

Version 1: My favorite. Enjoyed the story, the little references to different customs and myths, and sketched cinematically.

Version 4: Completely different genre, but loved the setting and characterization.

Version 6: Reads like a trailer to a bigger work. That's no slight on it though, I very much enjoyed the story, though, like some of the others, twists can be hard to disguise in such a short medium.

(Hopefully) constructive criticism elsewhere:

Version 2: Another ghost story, but doesn't earn the revelation. It just doesn't feel like a payoff.

Version 3: Well-written, and I like the main character, but I felt it needed a bit more. Sorry, this is dreadfully vague - there just didn't seem to be that much to hang a story on.

Version 5: An action movie scene. Dunno what to add to that. Didn't do much for me.

Version 7: There's something in this that I liked, though the dialogue - and how it's spaced - seems jumbled. Compared to 6)'s clarity, especially.

Version 8: Aside from the pun on deck, not a lot in it for me. Flipping the narrator/internal monologue back and forth made it a far harder read than it ought to be.

pickarooney

Version 8

Version 1: This demanded a couple of reads due both to the subtlety of the plot and the way it was written. I love the ambiguous nature of Peter and this

Version 2: Well written but totally ruined by giving away the ending in the title

Version 3: I would have voted for this one if it had just had a little oomph in the end instead of petering out the way it did. With a few adjustments this could be an outstanding story.

Version 4: This would be a much better story with half the word count. I'd recommend rewriting it with a 1000 word limit and see how it works out.

Version 5: Another so-so ending to a nice action piece. So many of these stories end with these 'sunset and pensive frown' shots.

Version 6: The best dialogue of the contest is all in this piece and the story is both tense and terse, making the most of the constraints imposed on the entries. It's been a while since we had a 'crazed, diseased mob on a ship' story. They were all the rage a couple of years ago.

Version 7: I love the way the misdirection here is that there is no misdirection. There's something about the whole tone of the piece that really appealed to me.

Version 8: I don't think the last three paragraphs add anything and if it had been a little tighter I would have voted for this one over version 7. Otherwise the ambience is well captured and Brendan's simmering resentment finely wrought.

Hrududu

Version 7

Great job, I enjoyed reading all the entries.

Version 1:
A simple enough story but the narrator gave it a bit of a lift. I liked his attitude and the little touches like him patting her head or being amused that they always behave a certain way.

Version 2:
I'm not too sure about whats going on here. He's a ghost but isn't aware of it? Are all of his shipmates also ghosts? Did they disappear on purpose to avoid the people from the helicopter? If so does that mean that Mitchell is the only ghost on the ship that doesn't know he's a ghost? And what was up with the number of Lieutenants with their secret plans? Other than that I thought it was well written with some good imagery:

"They seemed to pulse with silence..." nice.

Version 3:
It didn't really grab me. I'm not a fan of stories told in the present tense. Especially when nothing is really happening in the present except the captain going back over what happened before.

Version 4:
I liked the idea of the mother taking the son's idea to heart. I felt that was a natural end for the story, the father's search didn't really work for me. Especially the fact that he found her. After so many years in the sea would there be anything to find? On a cosmetic note I would have preferred the text to be broken into smaller paragraphs.

Version 5:
At one point I thought Trent was going to make an appearance in this story. If it was meant to be like that then kudos. If not, then there were a few issues. Like throwing in a line at the end to explain the motive. And ending on him longing for his previously unmentioned family.

Version 6:
I thought this was a cracking story. It really built up the tension and gave enough of an idea about what was going on so that the reactions of the characters were believable. Though I'm surprised they'd still be willing to let Norris go with them.

Version 7:
I was waiting for some sort of twist that never came. The muslim who you assume is trying to kill the president actually is trying to kill the president. I found the language a bit stilted in places. For instance:

"That view was replaced and now he was looking at the deck of the ship and the large yellow ‘H’ painted upon it. He had been tripped on to his knees."

Version 8:
I like how petty Brendan is. I didn't really get a good mental image of what he built, i.e. the size of it etc. Also I have a thing about time jumps with exposition. For instance here we have the incident followed by a "One year later" jump, instantly followed by this line of dialogue:

"I still can’t get over the fact that we became widows on the same night,” Which made me laugh.

I voted for Version 6 as it was the one I enjoyed the most.

Six of One

Version 8

Well done all 8 boradsies who submitted! There's nothing there that feels thrown together or unfinished and all were enjoyable reads. I'm a reader and not a writer and find it hard to pinpoint the strengths and weaknesses of each, but I will comment on what was obvious to me.

I voted for versions 6 and 7. I liked the plots of both and thought them well structured and paced. I especially the human (non-zombie) touch at the end of 6 and the dialouge in 7.

I read version 1 a few times and didn't get into it. I thought maybe there were one or two too many little jumps towards the end.
Like another poster, I thought version 4 would have been stronger if it had left off at Daragh as a child.
Version 8 was too expansive in my opinion.

Toasterspark

Version 8

Wow, what a great standard of writing, well done to everyone! I selected my favourites and they were Story 1, 7 and 8.

Story 1: I liked the idea of the story. Peter was an interesting lead character and it flowed really well. Unlike many of the others, the boat/ship served as a backdrop to the story and wasn't taken over by characters in seafaring occupations.

Story 7: Despite being a topic I wouldn't be interested in, the story flowed well and I had a clear image of the people and their emotions, which drew me in. The flag popping out was a little far-fetched though. Still, good story.

Story 8: Really quirky twist on the photo, and I kind of enjoyed the main character getting his just desserts at the end. Poor Mr. Jones though!

In general, the ship/sea theme is not something I'd be interested in, but you all had great stories. Getting itchy fingers to get involved in the next competition now!

Oryx

Version 5

Not a bad story among that lot. All were entertaining, and everyone had some really clever touches within them. Some brief things that came to mind:

Story 1. The kind of story I like, the main character was well drawn, and some nice comic touches.
Story 2. I'm afraid I sussed the plot line here almost from the start, and some things jarred. What era was this guy from? Would a ghost know what a laptop was?
Story 3. Well written but seemed an excerpt rather than a short story. I think I missed its point.
Story 4. Could have done with breaking up some of those paragraphs, but a very emotional story, I really liked it.
Story 5. Die hard at sea.
Story 6. Apocalyptic stories are not really my thing, and some sections I found confusing as to who was doing what. But the dead baby part was well handled.
Story 7. A good story, again the ending was signposted just a little.
Story 8. Funny and lighthearted, completely far-fetched, and the main character's mean, boring persona comes across well.

I'm going for one, and four. One is just the kind of story that amuses me, and four came from a place of real emotion. Unfortunately, pirates, battles and that kind of thing just arent my cup of tea.

echo beach

Version 5

Very hard to make a choice but in the end I went for 2, 4 and 8.

Version 2 might have been better not to give away so much in the title but I still wanted to know what was going on and felt it manged to maintain the tension and the air of danger.

Version 4 constructed the characters very well. The almost pagan idea of the sea needing to be paid a terrible price is still encountered in fishing communities and the author tapped into this attitude in a way that I found believable.

Version 8 got the nod for it's inventiveness in getting the story onto dry land.

kelator

Version 2

I'll start by saying well done to all the participants.(I actually started a story for this myself but never finished) Enjoyed reading all the entries.

Version 1:
Personal favourite. Complete story with a beginning, middle and end, coupled with an interesting MC. .Would be interested in reading more.

Version 2:
Guessed what the ending would be immediately which took away from overall enjoyment of the story.

Version 3:
Very well written, but felt like the opening of a longer piece. Nothing much actually happens.

Version 4:
Enjoyed this, but felt it dragged a little in places.

Version 5:
Could work well as an action scene in a larger piece were character has already been established. As it stands it didn't work for me as a short story as I did not care what happened to the MC.

Version 6.
Reminded me of World War Z, which in my view can only be a good thing.

Version 7.
The only negative thing with this story is the outcome is predictable.

Version 8.
Liked the tone of this piece. Good to see a completely different take on the story.

Antilles

Version 2

I voated for #1. Feedback later!

hcass

Version 8

I picked
6 – I’m not sure I like the whole apocalyptic thing as I feel it’s been done to death (pardon the pun) so glad you didn’t focus too much on that too much. I loved your focus on the poor woman and her failure to accept her child’s death. Very moving and a little scary too.

7 – I thought this was really well written, especially the dialogue between the two friends. I didn’t like the ending though. Another Muslim who we can’t trust? I don’t know if stories like this are a good idea anymore. But maybe I am being too harsh.

4 – There was something I loved about this story. Great characters, I loved the mother and the son. I agree with others that it was a bit too long and him finding the mother after twenty years was a little farfetched. But it moved me and I did genuinely feel for the father and his son.

---

1 – I wasn’t mad on this one. It was a bit… cliched? Again I think the whole passing over thing has been done over and over again and it just didn’t work for me. I didn’t understand why he was so irritated by the dead? And the whole “it’s not like the movies” thing, Nah, I just didn’t feel it at all.

2 – It wasn’t badly written or anything but the twist at the end thing is a bit old hat and you could see it coming a mile away. Sorry.

3 – Too much technical jargon at the start for me, got a bit confused, but maybe I’m just dumb?! It was a bit strange and I didn’t really get what you were trying to say or what message you were trying to get across.

5 – More cheese please! I don’t know if this was supposed to be as cheesey as it came across, maybe it’s an ironic piece. Didn’t really like it – sorry.

8 – I actually thought this was a good story, as in plot. And I liked the main character but you need to show not tell. And you use too many adverbs, cut them out. Cut out the brackets too, there is no need for them, it just irritates the reader. I think if you did a bit of work on this it could really be something but not the way it is now.

Blush_01

Version 5

Did the usual read, leave it for a few days and see what still sticks out thing.

I'm voting for #1 - thought it was the best story, and the one that I remembered best. The character of Peter is not in the slightest bit likeable, but there's a subtlety in how he acts that I enjoyed.

I also particularly liked and am voting for #4 - I personally thought the father finding the mother was less literal and more figurative, that after 20 years he realised that what he had of her was what he was going to have, and that he'd never physically find her, but that he needed his son to come home... possibly reading too much into it, but that was how I took it.

Well done to everyone though, enjoyed reading them and fair play.

Das Kitty

Version 5

I voted for Version 4.

Unlike others, I didn't think it was in any way too long. I love how evocative it is. There are some beautiful sentences in there. I'm also a sucker for anything relating to folklore and tales of the sea have always fascinated me. I've read it a few times now, it's sad and gorgeous.

seven stars

Version 7

I was late spotting this competition, and voting closes soon, so I maybe haven't been able to give each entry as much attention as I'd like. I must say that they're all good, and I'm impressed with the standard.

I think I'll be voting for number 6, with an honourable mention to number 4. Some of the other entries were well written but didn't have a story that appealed to me, or had a good story but weren't written quite as well. If I get a chance I'll go over them again.

pickarooney

Version 8

The poll and the contest are closed. Congratulations to our winner... (goes to check PMs)...

Das Kitty!

Das Kitty

Version 5

Thanks to everyone who voted and gave feedback.