February Femmes Fatales Stories

Over at Lily Childs' Feardom, the February Femme Fatales showcase has lots stories and poems written by women.  My short story, Driftwood, started life as a flash fiction piece, written as an entry in Lily's weekly Friday Prediction competition, and many people said that the flash story should be expanded into a short story, so I did just that and wrote an extended piece especially for the February Femme Fatales.

Here are the two versions.  First the flash piece, followed by the full short story.


Flash Fiction - Driftwood

Their voices melted into the night. Screams...like dust particles, swept from the bow.

The ladder parried against the side of the boat, knuckles white against a savage God of the sea, a grotesque creature that rose up and snarled, lashing at his feet.

‘Help...’

Her fingers outstretched - her deviant invitation, but a malignant demon squatted in her expression, shuddered with rancour, hungry for spite.

Fear dribbled from his face. His life revolved around the yacht, his pride and joy.

Fingers touched.

The slight upturn of her mouth betrayed her intention. She let go.

His screams. Drifting. Diminishing.

Then silence.



Short Story - Driftwood

Amphitrite glided gracefully through the water, unaware of the jagged darkness just over the horizon.

Stella Harris peered over the side of the yacht at the swirling dark water. Childhood fears bubbled at the bottom of her stomach, the thought of what lurked beneath the surface. She hated the water.

And now she was stuck on a boat drifting around the Mediterranean.

It was her husband’s idea of a perfect holiday, even though he knew she was terrified of water, but she always caved in to his forceful ideas. It was easier to do that than have his hands rip at her skin in a drunken, violent haze.

Every holiday revolved around the yacht, but this was their first foray into Peloponnese.

His voice punched through her reverie.

‘Don’t just stand there, get me a drink.’

She looked up.

Her husband at the helm, faux captain’s peak cap glinting beneath the last of the ruby tainted sunlight that shimmered in the distance, his hands caressing the wheel as though it was his mistress.

The polished wood of Amphitrite’s deck moaned against the swell. The sound made him smile.

She moved away from the rail, moved across the deck towards the steps to the lower cabin. Her voice bristled with caution. ‘It looks quite squally in the distance.’

‘It’s nothing unusual in these waters,’ he said. ‘It’s the Med, for Christ’s sake.’

Her stomached pitched. ‘Perhaps we c--’

‘Just shut up and get me a drink, yeah?’

She silently recoiled against his sting, carefully descended the steps into the galley and grabbed a beer from the fridge. She gazed at a framed picture hanging on the wall, two people laughing beneath a cherry blossom tree in full, lusty bloom.

Her wedding day, twenty-three years ago.

They had no children. He didn’t want them, but she was too lost in the ideal of love that her needs eventually became redundant. And now familiarity bred contempt, like a rotting corpse beneath a hot sun. Maggots writhed beneath the surface.

She went back up the steps. A vermillion scar stretched across the horizon to her right, steadily devoured by a creeping darkness to her left. The wind had picked up, no longer satiated by the sunlight.

She handed him the beer, watched as he steered Amphitrite into the speckled grey clouds clinging to the ocean.

The sound of the sails made her look up. They flapped like a flock of stricken birds, became loud.

She fastened her life jacket.

He didn’t wear one. He hated wearing them. Confident as always.

Soft spittle grazed her face; the squall rolled in from the distance.

Her gaze shifted. She watched as the yacht sailed headlong into the approaching theatre of darkness. The sickly swell in her stomach rose up her gullet and threatened to make her vomit, but somehow she managed to keep it down as she continually sucked in the rapidly cooling air.

The yacht creaked, rolled a little.

The dark crept in quickly, brought rain with it.

Something across the ocean rumbled. Her insides shuddered as the storm rushed at them. ‘We should turn the yacht around and go back.’

‘You wanted to go to Crete. This was your stupid idea.’

‘We can still turn back,’ she said. ‘No point in being foolish.’

‘Foolish? The only foolish idiot around here is you!’

The water around them gurgled.

The wave rushed up and over the stern, washing them towards the rails. The boat listed, heaved by the engorged swell. Their voices melted into the night. Screams...like dust particles, swept from the bow.

She clung tight to a capstan, saw of blur of colour sweep by as her husband shot across the deck, swept by the force of the wave. He clung to the metal rail; his eyes bright with dread through the dark, but the ocean heaved again and sucked him down.

She crawled forward, lurched as the yacht panned. She gazed down; saw him clinging to the ladder.

‘Help me...’

The ladder parried against the side of the boat and the frothy swell undulated as though drawing the strength to wrench him from his security. His knuckles whitened against a savage God of the sea, a grotesque creature that rose up and snarled, lashing at his feet.

She could almost see the trident rising from the depths, the shape of Poseidon lurching beneath the surface.

His voice cleanly sliced through the darkness. ‘Help...Christ!’

His frightened call brought her to. She leaned over the rail, barely able to cling on, her fingers outstretched.

Her life with him inked her conscience; the memories dulled the numb sensation in her fingers. The cold closed in around them.

He reached out for her.

Grasping fingers lured him: her deviant invitation, but a malignant demon squatted in her expression, shuddered with rancour, hungry for spite.

Fear dribbled from his face as he reached up.

She saw through the thin thread of his panic. She saw fear of a different kind.

His life revolved around the yacht, his pride and joy.

Fingers touched.

His pulse was strong and fearful against hers.

The God of the sea growled, churned with effortless malice, as the demons of the deep gathered beneath her husband’s feet.

The slight upturn of her mouth betrayed her intention. She let go.

He dropped into the water, sucked by a devious current into the darkness.

Then, above the storm, she heard his screams. Drifting.

She clung to the deck, insides spinning with relief.

His screamed slowly diminished.

Then silence.