Category: Fictional Ramblings

Sea of Deception

Awoken by cold water sloshing against his face, he winced, rubbing at his salt-filled eyes. Blinking tears until his vision cleared to light blue skies, he was surrounded by a flat calm ocean. Nothing more than a floating speck in the middle of nowhere, trying to remember his Stranded at Sea survival manual.

Still with his wits about him but in time, confusion would become an ally. Headaches would arrive, soon followed by motion sickness.

Licking his cracked lips he noted the first sign of dehydration, and a salt rash irritated his neck and shoulders where the life jacket rubbed against the skin, knowing boils would soon appear.

Hypothermia, he’d survived, so far. But his fingers were puffed-up like boiled pork sausages and it wouldn’t be long and his body would bloat from exposure.

He had to survive the day and contend with a sunburn that would cause his skin to crack and bleed, and try not to attract sharks.

Kicking his legs out beneath him he felt every singular hair follicle. It was as if they were being ripped out from his sensitized, briny soaked skin, unleashing shock waves over his entire being. With his heart pounding in his ears, head back, his screams echoed around him.

Then he floated. Unmoving. Just breathing.

The sea air was strong against his singed sinuses, but it was the smell of deception that burned more. Clenching his teeth, flexing his hands into fists to get the blood flowing, as memories of last night passed through his mind’s eye.

The first mate stirred that pot by turning the crew and it’d been a modern-day mutiny on his own ship. Tossed overboard like fish burly, by rookie wannabe pirates, suffering cabin fever found in a mob of manipulated dumbarses.

Soon to be dead dumbarses.

All night he’d deliberated on elaborate malicious plans. Intricate strategies perfected in retaliation of their treachery. Ensuring every single crew member would suffer in their own unique way. It’s what kept him alive.

He needed to prevent sunburn and cover his eyes to combat partial blindness, another expected side effect from reflective sunlight and needed to suspend his gruesome death by seawater. With measured movements, he found nothing in his pockets. There hadn’t been time to grab anything, only wearing shorts and his own personal lifejacket. For now, it was just waiting while planning his revenge and drift with the tide.

When a whirring mechanical noise echoed in the distance. Shielding his eyes from the rising sun, he spotted a fast moving object coming towards him.

Thank god—a helicopter.

Sighing with relief he smiled. He might be a captain—but he was a modern-day pirate and the EPIRB attached to his lifejacket obviously worked and knew he’d have his vengeance.

 

from the flash fiction collection MOVING MOMENTS

MMoments R&Rramblings FB 1b

#MovingMoments #HomeSweetNot #R&Rramblings #RuralRomanticRamblings

by Mel A ROWE

Sun Burning Melon

Awoken by a slap to the face, Sam winced at the fierce sunlight with his body buried up to his chin in dirt. ‘What the—’ Sam’s heart pounded, unable to move. Lungs, mouth, nose and eyes were filling with choking red dust.

‘Bout time you woke up,’ said Ren, squatting down in front of Sam.

 ‘Ren, let me out!’

‘Why? When it took me hours just to getch’ya in there.’

‘You’ve had your fun. Now, take your photos and drag me out of ‘ere.’ Spying Ren’s ute with a small fuel container close by, realising they were in Ren’s backyard. Which was anywhere to nowhere. ‘You’re hurting me.’ Sam struggled to get free, but the earth just gripped tighter.

‘Bulldust!’ Ren leaned in closer to the buried male. ‘You’re in no pain. I know you’re not.’

‘I can’t breathe.’ Sam heaved in the hot air, tasting the outback’s dust.

‘You’ve been peacefully nappin’ these past coupla hours in that hole.’

‘Why are you doing this? You swore to our mother on her death bed last week that you wouldn’t hurt me.’

‘That I did. An’ I honour me promises. Unlike you, bro.’ Ren messed up Sam’s hair. ‘Ya know, as a kid, you had that look of them cherubs, with ‘em puffy cheeks an’ blonde curls. Now, you look like a sunburnt melon. But this is me, keeping my end of the bargain.’ Raising himself upright, Ren reached for the fuel canister.

‘Get me out of here Ren,’ Sam pleaded, struggling to free himself.

Ren poured fuel onto the red dirt that evaporated into fumes from the burning sun. Coming full circle, he keenly surveyed the endless flat Australian desert. Satisfied they were alone, he pulled out a box of matches from his shirt pocket and a plastic spoon he tossed to land in front of Sam’s face. ‘You can dig yourself out if you want? But you’ll wanna be quick about it.’

Striking a match, Ren threw the small flame onto the fuel-soaked ground. Flames burst upwards surrounding Sam’s head with hundreds of trapped ants that scrambled towards him.

‘Ren, don’t do this!’

‘It’s already done ‘n dusted.’ Ren watched the circle of flames burn towards the talking head trapped in the desert. ‘As promised, I’m not gonna hurt ya. But the wildlife might?’

The intense heat from crackling flames closed in, panicked ants crawled onto Sam’s neck and face, clambering into his nose, his ears and hair. Their bites stinging, making their way down his body. ‘Please Ren, I’m begging.’

Ren watched the ants move like a suffocating black blanket to swarm all over Sam. ‘‘I’ve kept my promise to our mum to not harm a hair on ya’ head. But I also promised Dad on his deathbed that when mum died—you’d die for bein’ the freeloader who was never his son.’

 

from the flash fiction collection, HOME SWEET—NOT.

Home Sweet Not - by Mel A Rowe

#HomeSweetNot #R&Rramblings #RuralRomanticRamblings

by Mel A ROWE

Outback Despatch

Swept across a sapphire skyline, the small plane floated like a speck of dust. Amidst rising heat waves, it magnetised towards the red dirt runway and parked beside
a tin shed where a work-ute reversed alongside the plane’s underbelly.

Cargo unloaded. Doors slammed. And the pilot was now a passenger inside the vehicle that created a red-powdered plume to continue the Outback mail run.

Inside the cattle station’s homestead, Jack’s boots echoed across the floorboards. His chair scraped as he groaned at the assortment of envelopes and last months’ newspapers waited spread across the table. When he spied a small, simple box. “What’s this?”

The cook by the stove shrugged and said, “it came in the mail.”

With pocket-knife, Jack sliced open the tape. Unfolded the lid and extracted a bubble-wrapped vase.  “Smells burnt. Is this one of your cookin’ powders?”

“Nope.”

“Not another herbal tonic or miracle face-powder?”

“No.”

Jack read from the box lid. “Please refer to the attached letter for instructions.” So he shuffled through the pile of post. “They’re not here. Jimmmmmyyyyyyy.”

Jimmy poked his head around the corner by the screen door. “Yeah?”

“This all the mail?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re missin’ a letter for this.” Jack pointed to the ceramic jar. “Where’s the pilot?”

“He’s nappin.”

Jack’s sun-hardened face scowled. “Tell that overpaid postman he hasn’t finished workin’, not until he’s delivered me the instructions for this box.”

Jimmy ran to the work-ute and before the dust settled he returned with the pilot. “We found it amongst a pile of crap under one of the plane’s seats.”

The pilot dropped the crumpled letter onto the table. “I’m paid to fly, not clean.”

“You’re paid to deliver mail too,” mumbled Jack, opening the envelope.

The pilot yawned. “Why the bother when it’s addressed the same as junk mail, for the Station Manager.”

“It’s for this fancy grey powder,” said the cook showing them the vase’s floury contents.

Jack held up his large workman’s palm. “Stop. You’ll wanna wash ya hands now.”

“Why,” asked the trio with fingers in the jar?

“That’s the ashes of a Heston Tipperary.”

“Who,” they chorused?

“It says he was one of the station’s original stockman and was 92 when he passed.”

“Ewww.” The cook’s nose screwed up, stepping away from the offending jar.

The pilot cringed as he replaced the lid. “How come they mailed you an urn of some stranger’s ashes?”

“Lawyer sent ‘em. Says Heston’s dying wish is to have his ashes scattered across the station.”

“We could have a ceremony,” said the cook, leading the charge to the kitchen’s taps.

Jack grabbed the urn and his sweat-stained Akubra and left before they’d finished washing their hands. “If he was an ol’ Bushman they don’t like ceremonies and fuss.”

On the escarpment showcasing the cattle station’s vista, Jack opened the urn’s lid. He released the contents in a large sweeping arc that was carried with the wind and disappeared among the streaks of pink and blues that crossed the darkening skyline. And he whispered, “Welcome home, mate. Welcome home.”

(500 words)

 

from the flash fiction collection, HOME SWEET-not!

HSN TW2

#HomeSweetNot #R&Rramblings #RuralRomanticRamblings

by Mel A ROWE