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So Close

A sailor is close to land, and to safety.

By C.K. ClawsonPublished 2 years ago 5 min read
2

His lips were dry, so dry that they cracked and bled. The sailor looked up bleakly at the cloudy sky above, licking his lips and sitting up. He looked around, his eyes finding nothing suspicious in the water surrounding his dinghy. He looked up towards the horizon to the west and panicked when he saw the grey-blue waters of the ocean, never-ending in its size. Where did the island go?

The old sailor swiveled around in his seat, calming as the land he’d been trying to get to for so long appeared just to the north of where he was facing. As long as he could still see it, he knew he stood a chance of survival, provided the thing didn’t get to him first.

The thing… was it still down there? It hadn’t bothered him in almost a day. Perhaps it had gone to leave him alone, off to find another ship.

The sailor sighed forlornly and reached down between his legs, under the seat. He pulled out his satchel, opening it and looking down at the contents. In the small leather bag, there were two flasks, some hardtack, a compass, and his spare knife. He pulled out the first flask and took a swig, shaking the container afterwards and frowning at the hollow swishing the liquid made within. He was running low on water. He would have to slow down or risk dying of thirst.

He put the flask back in the bag next to its brother and reached for the hardtack, breaking off a piece and chewing carefully, trying to ignore its blandness while he searched the waters for the thing. He heard something and turned, knife up in self-defense, but nothing was there. Probably the water lapping against the boat.

As he turned back, something caught his eye. He reached down into the bottom of the boat, and he pulled up a small hand mirror, about two inches square. It was a little grimy, but he could see into it well enough.

“Huh. How did you get in here? Dropped from that fop who hired us?” the sailor murmured to himself as he looked at it.

He turned it a little and his reflection caught his eye. He pulled the mirror back a bit so he could get a better look at himself.

The sailor’s eyes looked sunken, with dark circles under each blue eye. His hair, dirty and matted, was greyer than the brown it was the last time he looked into a glass. The long scar he’d gotten when he was a lad, smarting off to his awful father in a fit of anger, was faded, but still lay across his cheek, starting at the outer corner of his left eye and ending just below his lip. For a sailor, it was pretty clear to him that he was getting old.

A shadow in the mirror appeared, sudden and quick, and he dropped it in his haste to turn and face whatever it was, heart beating in his chest. Before him, looming over his dinghy and the ocean’s surface, was a black tentacle, suckers wide as dinner plates. It stretched and writhed, mere feet from his boat. The sailor twisted his body around and stood carefully, trying to get in a defensive position without overturning the vessel he inhabited. He pulled up the oar that was sitting next to him and held it in front of him, waiting. The tentacle stayed high in the air, but did not move, a menacing tower of muscle.

The smell of the creature reached his nose, briny and musty, like the hull of a leaky ship. He noticed some barnacles on the bottom of it, around some of the suckers. This thing was big, and old.

For a moment, the thing’s appendage seemed to hover over him. Then, it swirled in the water and the air violently, creating a swirling wave. The sailor’s boat spun, and he cursed violently, working hard to keep upright. He almost lost grip on the oar but managed to hold onto the tool. The tentacle reached towards the boat with nearly blinding speed. He yelled in response and hunched his body forward, swinging the paddle end of the oar at the creature’s arm, screaming at it.

“Go on, I’m not scared of you!” he yelled, denying the fear in his heart. “I survived my bastard father, I’ll survive you, you goddamn monster!”

He struck the creature just as it reached the boat, the defensive move stopping the thing from knocking him into the cold salt water. It curled back, pausing over him as if confused but not hurt. He glared at it, pulling out his pocket knife. Then, he felt cold wetness surround his ankles. He looked down and realized in sheer terror that he was almost to his knees in water, and there was a hole nearly six inches wide in the bottom of the dinghy he had worked so hard to keep afloat, the dinghy he had survived on for nearly two days. The creature had destroyed the ship he was contracted to work on, and now had destroyed his last hope of survival.

The screams of pain and terror from his former shipmates echoed in his mind, and he looked up as several more tentacles appeared out of the water, surrounding the little sinking craft. He glared in horror and anger at them, then stood straight and squared up his shoulders. He knew it was inevitable, but this creature would feel his blade as he died. He raised the knife and oar as the creature struck.

monster
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About the Creator

C.K. Clawson

I'm an aspiring novelist in my early thirties. I live in Southern Missouri, and I am married and have seven cats, and multiple interests, including cooking, games, serial killers, gardening, sewing, crochet, missing persons, and reading.

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