What Now (566 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.02 on 19 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by charminglybeef (View user info) at 2006-12-15 09:31:43 EST
Christopher Thompson squinted hard into the wind. Even with a blanket of clouds the Carib sun could force his eyes to slits, but today it was the bits of sand and ocean spray.
He sat calmly, as he had been for several days, confronting the fury of the Gulf Stream. November was always a good time to see weather here. It was also good for bringing fresh water and tossing useful things onto the beach, but it was hard for fishing. That's what Christopher Thompson thought as he stared out over his tumultuous bay.
In the distance, marking the spot where the water turned from turquoise to deep blue, tendrils of white water probed at the sky. The barrier reef. It was being thumped at by swells born hundreds of miles out to sea, nurtured and fed and encouraged their entire journey to land. Big waves lumbered onto the beach, shouting and grumbling, then leaving with a drunken whisper.
The spent husks of coconuts and bananas made a neat pile beside him, and stuck into the sand beside that, was a long fishing spear with goggles and a snorkel hanging from its end.
Christopher Thompson's stomached grumbled. Too much fruit, he thought, and reached for another banana.
In the night the wind began to steady. It stopped felling coconuts and lifting sand off the beach. Christopher hoped it wouldn't die altogether, lest it free the scourge of sand flies.
When he woke the bay was nothing like the washing machine it was the day before. It was only the tops of the waves that were lashed by the wind now. They look like spring peaks in the Rockies, Christopher thought, but growing and crumbling in seconds.
He rose from his shelter and stood on his beach, arms out wide and eyes closed. Feeling the day. The wind still blew strong, but the sun had come out and the humidity was down. He opened his eyes. Visibility in the water will be poor, he thought, but I have a powerful lust for fish.
He meandered back to his thatch and turned to face the sea once more. A dark patch of reef shone only fifty yards off shore. He had been saving that reef, so close and safe and untouched, for a day just like this.
He stepped sideways into the surf, goggles and snorkel on, spear in hand. Tied to his hips and dragging behind him was a mesh bag. He leaned into a big wave and the cool water gave him a burst of energy as it hit his chest. He plunged in, refreshed.
The tide was going out, but it was barely noticeable. The ocean swell owned the bay today, and rocked him back and forth. He floated for a moment, enjoying its immense power and watching as the sand shifted forward and then backwards beneath him. Visibility isn't so bad, he thought -- considering the weather. He could see the tip of his spear probing out in front of him.
He took a big gulp of air and plunged to the lower depths, where he could swim without the influence of the wind.
Reaching the reef, Christopher smiled. Salt water exploited the happy gaps and trickled into his snorkel. On his approach he had seen a bigparrot fish swimming slowly around the base of the coral. It flapped through the water like a bird with impossible wings. It was a rainbow parrot fish. Good to eat. Around the top of the coral head there were plenty of holes and lots of green grass. There he would find lobster.
He swam to the top of the reef. It was better to shoot lobster first than fish. They didn't bleed.
Swimming upside-down, then holding the reef to steady himself, Christopher peered into the grassy holes of the coral, looking for the tell-tale protrusions of the spiny lobster. He would float to the top and clear his snorkel, take a deep breath, and then disappear back under the break. He swam slowly, conserving his oxygen, and checking two or three holes before going back up again. Finally, he saw what he was looking for: the two long spires of sensory input for theCaribbean lobster. He readied the spear, sliding the rubber band up its length, and steadied himself in front of the hole. He felt it hit something soft and solid, and then it began to thrash about. He pushed the spear deep into the hole and then pulled it out; on its end, a large pulsing crayfish.
He slipped it into the bag and caught one more before heading to the base of the reef and the holes where the big fish hid. He tied his bag to a length of cylindrical coral and went back to the surface to catch his breath.
Diving once more, bubbles streamed from his snorkel as he sought neutral buoyancy. He hung in the water on the lee side of the reef and peered into the bigger holes. He was looking for a parrot fish or a grouper or jack. It was his rule to only shoot one fish. If he got greedy and filled the water with blood, bigger predators than he would be hunting these corals.
He made a slow lap around the reef, surfacing and sinking and poking his head into holes and under shelves. There were many fish and many beautiful formations, but nothing worthy of a shot. Christopher swam slowly, relishing in the fact that this was his day's work.
On the exposed side of the reef he found a cave that opened up to the sand. Inside he could see a school of shining grunts and jacks. It's too dangerous to go inside in this weather, he thought -- it might not let me back out. He scoured the coral above it and found a skylight. In this low water above the reef the waves grew in intensity; they pushed him forward and then sucked him back. He swam a few feet from the reef and readied his spear. Surging in on a wave and grasping tight at the reef, he positioned himself at the skylight, making sure his shadow didn't go inside.
A big jack swam up and saw him, flashing an eye and a tail and disappearing too quickly to get off a shot. He waited some more.
Out of air, Christopher surfaced. He took long deep breaths and returned to his position at the top of the reef. The tips of his fingers clutched a small piece of coral and his legs floated idly above him. He waited. It was peaceful and pleasant. Then, a grunt -- he plunged his hand into the hole and shot, hearing the 'tink' of his spear hitting the reef, just as a sudden swell picked him up and flipped him over, pressing his back against the jagged coral and pulling his arm out of the hole. The back of his head dug into the reef and he tried to push himself to what he thought was the surface, only to find more solid, biting coral. A gulp of water filled his lungs, forcing him to cough and inhale more. Finally, he found the air.
Christopher gasped and coughed and choked beneath the crumbling break. He swam away from the coral head and peeled off his water-filled goggles and shoved the snorkel into his mouth. Several minutes later, he had expelled enough of the corrosive ocean to breathe freely again. He looked at his arm; it oozed blood from long cuts from his wrist to his elbow. A small chunk of flesh was missing from his bicep. His back burned as salt crept into the wounds and his head throbbed dully.
Fucking hell, he said through his snorkel, and he pulled his goggles back over his eyes. Dropping below the surface he began the grim and humble journey back to shore. Blood leaked from his forearms like smoky ribbons. Abreast of the reef, Christopher stopped, remembering the spear. As he floated, a red cloud billowed around his mask, surging back and forth with the movement of the ocean. He felt the back of his head and a flap of skin hung loose in the water.
He cursed, and swam back to the far side of the reef.
It was deep within the jagged coral, its rubber loop just out of reach. If the goddamn waves would stop I could get it, he thought. He surfaced, and yelled until he was out of breath. Treading water, he eventually calmed.
I hate to leave it, but it's not going anywhere, he reasoned.
Red ribbons streamed from his head and back as he swam his way to the beach. Christopher stopped. He had forgotten the bag of lobsters. He hesitated a moment, then dove once more and headed back to the reef. Tugging at the loose end of the knot the bag came free, and Christopher turned to rise just in time to see the fin of a shark disappear beyond the edge of the coral.
He dropped the bag and pushed off the sandy bottom, firing like a torpedo for the surface. His breath was heavy and wet and hollow through the tube of his snorkel and a crimson gel shone on the top of his head, bobbing on top of the water. Visibility was no more than ten feet. If I see him, he's only ten feet away, he realized.
He spun violently in the water, suddenly aware that the shark could be at his back. Red clouds swirled around him, but nothing else.
Panic filled him and he swam. Ferociously, and along the surface, he thrashed his way back to the beach, but the tide was coming out and the waves were dropping into the top of his snorkel and filling his mouth. He coughed and struggled to clear, and eventually stopped, treading water and turning to face the reef once more. Nothing. He pulled the snorkel from his mouth and gasped desperately at the open air. He spun around and buried his face in the water, looking for the shark. He lifted his head above the sea and was met by a large wave which filled his mouth and lungs.
He coughed and gasped and then plunged his face back into the water to look for the shark and then pulled it back out again, struggling for breath. A wave crashed into his face and down his throat again and he remembered to keep his snorkel on.
His muscles and lungs burned and his head throbbed and his back and arm stung. He looked to the shore. Forty yards. Head and eyes darting back and forth he caught his breath again. A cold dark feeling seemed to press against his back and he turned, finding nothing. Every nerve on his body screamed, anticipating what seemed the inevitable contact. They seemed to strain and probe the water, daring to feel the change in pressure that would signify another presence.
And damn these goggles, he thought. I have no peripheral vision.
He allowed himself to sink and spun himself around in a full circle, searching the water around him desperately. It was cloudy, and suspended throughout were white particles of sand and dark pieces of coral and plant matter. His heart thundered in his ears.
Even if I do see it, there's nothing I can do.
And then, in the corner of his vision, distorted by the curve of the goggles, he saw the flash of a large, dark fin.
Christopher Thompson thought nothing. He was full of panic and fear and adrenaline. He surfaced once more and took an enormous gulp of air before diving several feet and swimming madly towards the shore.
Thirty-five yards.
Thirty.
He surfaced and thrashed his way along, attempting to replenish his body of oxygen.
Twenty-five.
Back under water.
Twenty.
He stopped and spun wildly in the water, at the same time kicking to the surface. He almost wished he could see the thing swimming after him. His skin felt electric, and finely-tuned. It longed to feel something -- anything!
Breathe.
Fifteen. He could see the slope of the beach through the murky water.
Ten.
The shark entered his vision and passed below him. Then another to his left. He kicked desperately and felt a muscle in his thigh tear. It howled inside him. He kept kicking. His lungs burned and they tried to force his mouth open. He gulped inside his throat involuntarily, but his jaws were clenched tight, their muscles bulging at his cheeks. And then he was knocked sideways by something that felt more powerful than the ocean itself. He flapped violently and screamed beneath the water, a high pitched bubbling that filled his ears. On the surface he gasped and felt the warm, dull pain creeping from his calf. Kicking still, Christopher had the vague sense of loose flesh flailing in the water behind him, like streamers in the wind.
Five yards. He could touch the bottom. He attempted to run, but his right leg was useless and he hopped along, surging forward by way of his arms. He collapsed forward and his hands found the sandy bottom. His head was barely above the water. Desperate, and with a distant feeling of triumph, he crawled his way towards the beach, only to find himself being pulled back into the water.
He screamed -- primal and inhuman -- as he felt the shark pulling and shaking his wounded leg. He dug his hands deep into the wet sand and an enormous wave crashed behind him, pushing him up onto the beach.
The tension on his leg was gone.
He looked down, and so was everything below his right ankle. And most everything below the knee. Dark, sleek silhouettes zig-zagged in the shallows before him. Menacing and hungry and turned right on. Three of them.
Holy shit, he said, unable to think of anything else.
Then, shaking -- a stream of blood and flesh speckled with sand trailing from his right leg -- he looked around at his expanse of lonely beach, and wondered what on earth to do now.
User Reviews
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-12-16 12:15:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
And I was referring to a bird. The 'wings' of the parrot fish are so small that they work just fine in the water, but on a bird they would be impossible.
I drew the comparison because underwater they look and move like they're flying.
Maybe it doesn't work though.
And again, thank you.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-12-16 12:12:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Thank you so much.
You're full of great feedback.
Love to hear what you thought of my last post ;)
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-12-16 10:43:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
"the bay was nothing like the washing machine it was the day before."
-"washing machine" certainly describes the movement well, but the mention of an appliance is oddly placed in this setting.
"I have a powerful lust for fish."
-This doesn't sound to me like something a man would say in his his head.
"Salt water exploited the happy gaps and trickled into his snorkel."
-"happy gaps"?
"It flapped through the water like a bird with impossible wings."
-"impossible wings" would work somewhere; but here it seems confusing. A *fish* with wings is impossible, but the structure of the sentence implies you're referring to a bird.
I actually enjoy some of the chances you take with language, by the way- I was a big fan of "puddinger".
The further I got, the more I enjoyed this and the more it read like one of your pieces. Hope this helps.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-12-16 10:04:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Good feedback Hotwillie and Sacrilicious -- thank you.
What words did you find awkward, licious?
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-12-15 19:43:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
As compared to the usual CB +1
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-12-15 19:43:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I generally love your work, and this was decent, but I found some of you word choices really awkward. I liked the ending.
Uber +2,
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2006-12-15 19:13:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-12-15 17:02:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-12-15 16:31:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
DAMN IT, didn't we tell you to post on Wed about 11?
See only 11 reviews, for shame... SHAME
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-12-15 16:25:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
stupid sharx
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2006-12-15 15:22:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Small price to pay for the chance of fresh lobster in my opinion.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-12-15 14:37:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Well done.
When a story ends like this one, (which I found effective) I would enjoy more in the beginning.
Although it stands alone as is. Just my personal taste.
The good stuff on this site is often too short, and the shit is often far too long. This, I wanted more of.
I do think it would've been better with no name at all, though. The whole story was rather anonymous, which worked in its favor with the ending point.
Submitted by ticklish_squirrel (user info) at 2006-12-15 14:01:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Why are they more worried about the 'Last Name' than the story itself?
This was good. I fucking hate sharks and now my feet are curled up under me, I don't want to put them down.
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2006-12-15 12:56:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
me like beef.
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2006-12-15 12:15:08 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
That sure was a lot of words and stuff.
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2006-12-15 12:08:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
not -2 worthy, that's for sure. it was tense, good at the end.
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-12-15 10:07:25 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by professorfuckface (user info) at 2006-12-15 09:42:30 (#)
Ranking: 0
why would you give a last name to the only character mentioned in the story, you stupid fuck
-----
Good question
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-12-15 09:58:20 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
i hate 'stories' that start with the full name.
Submitted by professorfuckface (user info) at 2006-12-15 09:42:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
why would you give a last name to the only character mentioned in the story, you stupid fuck