# 30/9/12 - LM - Out at Sea



## Potty (Sep 30, 2012)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*Out at Sea​
*A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.*

The winner will receive a forum award which will be pinned to their lapel by Baron himself. Also the winner will be awarded with a one month free subscription to the forums (FoWF) which will give you access to additional forums and use of the chat room where a there is a steadily growing community!

So, do your best!


*Our prompt for this months competition is: 

Out at Sea.
*
In 650 words, write a story where the prompt above is in some way included in the story such as the theme; object; setting etc. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt.


*The judges for this round are: 

Terry D; KarlR; Fin; Mr mitchell

*(To the judges, send your scores to Potty via PM - and if we could aim to have them sent a week after the closing date that would be ideal.)


*Now a recap of the rules:

*1.The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
2.You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
3.And of course, there can only be one entry per member.

No comments in this thread please - Only competition entries (and links to) to be posted in this thread.
Also hold off on "liking" stories until the judging's done.


*There are two ways to post your entry:*

You can opt to have your entry posted in the [URL="http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/133307-01-10-2012-lm-out-sea-workshop-thread.html#post1564233"]LM Workshop[/URL]Thread which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry there in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into the main competition thread or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your here entry in the LM Challenge thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.


*This competition will close on:

*Sunday the 14th of October. To avoid confusion the thread will close at 11:59pm (Sunday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.

Good luck!


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## Arcopitcairn (Sep 30, 2012)

Prince Dreamshine and Fufflemuff Out at Sea

  Prince Dreamshine flung the shiny tin of Sex Tape at the nymphs as they danced around a burning effigy of him. The odd artifact bounced off one of the green-haired heads and the tin opened, the roll of black tape tumbling into the fire. It melted quickly and produced a foul odor. The angry girl-things bounced and railed at Dreamshine as he rode Fufflemuff high above, laughing at them. The nymphs called him several names, including, ‘mardruke’ and ‘tindlespot’. The prince and his pink, winged unicorn dove away and on, and Mount Starstuff disappeared into the mists of the memory behind, like a child’s cry of loneliness.


  “What in blazes is a ‘mardruke’, Fufflemuff?” The prince asked as they penetrated the soft, wet clouds, with the hard pink alicorn leading the way.


  “I believe it refers to one who defiles a funeral feast with bodily fluids.” Fufflemuff said through a mouthful of cirrus wisps.


  “Filthy little trollops,” Dreamshine snorted, and they burst in a blurry dash of color from a creeping, moist cloud.


   Quivering droplets scattered and dried on Dreamshine’s taut, muscular chest as he and Fufflemuff drifted through the caressing rays of the four suns that shone down on Furthest Forest. The unicorn’s mighty wings beat a fine mist of cloud-wet that kept the prince glistening in the hot, solar crossfire of the sky.


  “Let’s away, Fufflemuff,” he said, his flowing blond hair drying in the eyes of the day. “To the sea, my friend, beyond the borders of my father’s realm, free from the oppressive yoke of the same and the known! Oh, my heart! It clamors for the high adventure of the 9 Seas, and all the mysterious and uncharted islands waiting in the waves!”


  “Well, okay,” the unicorn said worriedly. “But would you not at least like to fetch a sword and boots, or perhaps a shirt?”


  “High adventure needs no shirt!” Dreamshine hollered. “It needs only a fine and stout sort, a hearty pair like us to grab it by the throat and wring excitement like cream from a Thundermelon! My shirt is the sky!”
  And off they flew into the unknown, their minds reeling with mermadic and piratical possibilities, and their hearts whispering silent prayers of protection against the seething behemoths of legend that certainly plotted below in the briny depths.

  King Lovebubble sat alone in his dimly-lit throne room, brooding. His sharp eyes stared at nothing and his long gray beard was flopped in his lap. The nine mystical jewels inlaid in his crown sparkled and glowed, sending weak, magic flashes of light skittering across ancient tapestries and rugs. He slumped on his throne, his silence interspersed with periodic huffs and sighs.


  The large, golden doors of the throne room creaked open, and in limped Hargoth, The Seer. The robed man, his face hidden in the folds of his hood, shuffled to the foot of the king’s throne, and he slowly knelt there, his head bowed.


  “Where is he, Seer?” Lovebubble growled.


  Hargoth’s ghostly voice floated up from beneath the shadowed hood. “Your son is headed out to sea, into danger and the mists beyond.”


  “That boy,” the king began, “I have given that boy everything. He cares nothing for his responsibilities. Always adventure, always excitement. That’s all he cares about. Tormenting the nymphs, and now he defies my law by travelling beyond the borders of the Furthest Forest!” The king stood and raged his fists at the ceiling, his jeweled robes jingling. “It shall not stand! Not for one moment longer! Hargoth! You shall go forth to the lair of Kremtrok, the Horror Fairy!”


  “Not him, my liege!” Hargoth shuddered, “anyone but him!”


  “Silence! Command him in my name to venture forth and return my wayward son to me! And for punishment, for Dreamshine’s transgressions, order Kremtrok to kill my son’s unicorn! Fufflemuff must die!”


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## FleshEater (Oct 1, 2012)

*"The Dead of the Sea" (650 words)*

*“The Dead of the Sea”*
By Matthew A. Campbell​
“The sea has its ways of bringing you back to her.”

“To sleep forever, in her cold embrace.” 

Jack and Vance recited the lore in dreadful accord. Neither man could ever forget those condemning words.

Both men stood in silence, listening to the soothing sounds of the calming ocean, feeling the boat rock gently beneath their feet. The sun was nearing the western horizon; its radiance gleamed across the water for what seemed miles. It was tranquil, and the two men felt the void of these waters within them. 

Jack and Vance met in 1942 through their enlistment in the U.S. Navy. The majority of their military time had been spent in the bloody entanglements of war. They were two of the twelve hundred men stationed on the USS Indianapolis when it was shot down by the Imperial Navy in 1945. 

The sinking ship claimed the lives of three hundred men, dragging them down to its desolate, oceanic grave. The remaining nine hundred struggled against the currents of the maelstrom, only to find that they faced a new battle within the natural elements of the harsh sea. Some died of starvation or dehydration; some claimed their own lives, while others were drug out to sea by the sharks to accompany the dead. Three hundred men survived the battle of the elements, escaping the ferociousness of the depths beyond. 

The sea, however, does not rest idly, lost in the forgotten lapses of time; it lures you in, beckoning your return. That is the real testament to survival, to escape the _dead_ of the sea. It’s something that every seafaring man knows.

“You don’t think that old myth is true, do you Jack?” asked Vance.

“40 years ago we vowed never again to sail over these waters. And look; here we are now, right where my nightmares keep bringing me back to.”

Vance’s eyes squinted as he relinquished a defeated sigh; he wore the face of a solemn man, realizing his dismal fate. 

“There’s no use in running anymore is there?”

Jack nervously cleared his throat as he struggled for the words.

“No old friend, I don’t believe there is.” 

Vance felt that unloving coldness rush over him as he reminisced of the calm, haunting air that accompanied that night in 1945. It was the calm before the coming storm and it chilled the atmosphere. The panic, the all too familiar screams, they all seemed to come back to him at that moment, staring into the endless horizon. 

It was then that he noticed the glass complexion of the calm water breaking into chaos. It bubbled like a boiling pot of water all around their boat. Jack saw it too. 

“It’s _them__,_ isn’t it?” Vance’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“Yes” Jack said in a stern, cold voice.

The war hardened eyes of both these men portrayed fear like never before as they watched the horror unfold around them. They slowly stepped back towards the center of their boat. The innumerable mass of pallid, pale hands crept over the side as the dead clawed and grappled their way along the boat’s deck. 

Legions of the dead confined them as they amassed in the surrounding water. Those that had crawled aboard stood silently around them, gathered together for the coming ceremony. Jack and Vance stared into those vacant, cloudy white eyes in an attempt to avoid their torn, tattered, half eaten bodies. This was their fate, their damnation; they had escaped these waters once before, but the unrelenting curse of the sea summoned them. 

The dead parted an aisle that led to the ocean water as the men walked to the edge of the boat. They peered into the depths of her great, dark abyss as she called out to them in her beautiful, mesmeric tone. Inhaling their last breath of life, the air nourished their lungs as they submitted to her will.


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## MacDub (Oct 1, 2012)

*Out at Sea*

"Are you sure you want to go through with this," she asked as she peered over the top of her mirrored sunglasses.

"Does it really matter at this point," Caldrin dejectedly replied. "We've come this far already."

Caldrin and Sheila sat in the shade of a cactus at the foot of the  mountain. They had been wandering through the steep desert canyons for  several days.

"Do you really think he will take us there," Sheila asked. She savored a small sip from her canteen.

"He wouldn't lie to me," Caldrin said. "He's the eldest living of my family. He is Grandfather."

"What did he said about the place," Sheila asked. "I can hardly understand him when he gets to talking about that stuff."

Caldrin shifted and sat up to face her. "The easiest translation is that it's an ancient temple from the times before mankind."

"A temple.... right," Sheila scoffed. "What kind of gods were worshiped there?"

"It's not a temple of worship like that," Caldrin said with irritation  at having to explain it again. The heat of the day pressed against his  skin, even in the shade of the cactus. "It's more like a sacred place,  guarded and secret."

Caldrin stood up and squinted a look at the draw that cut into the  mountain above. "Grandfather says that it is a place where all life  flows into without filling it up. It is also the place where all life  flows from without draining it. That's why he calls it Sea."

"Yah," Sheila said sarcastically, as she stuffed her canteen back into her pack. "That makes total sense."

"Look," Caldrin said with excitement and pointed. "He's coming down the draw."

Sheila stood and looked up the mountain.  She could see the frail man  walking down the rocky slope of the draw with the grace and precision of  a mountain goat. She shouldered her pack and wiped the sweat from her  brow. "Let's walk up to meet him."

Caldrin and Sheila began their ascent up the rocky draw. They struggled  across the loose rocks until they came face to face with Grandfather. He  spoke words to Caldrin that Sheila didn't understand, and the three  continued up the mountain.

****
They found Sheila days later, wandering alone in the desert. A missing  persons alert for Caldrin and Sheila had been broadcasting for several  days. Officer Ramsey continued to search for the two, long after the  most organized search parties had disbanded. Ramsey found Sheila sobbing  incoherently, dehydrated, and blistered.

"Where is Caldrin," Ramsey asked as he lifted his canteen to Sheila's cracked and peeling lips.

"He's still out at Sea," she managed to say.

Ramsey shook his head. "The desert heat has cooked her mind," he said to his search partner and shook his head.

_*-MacDub*_


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## helium (Oct 4, 2012)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...2-lm-out-sea-workshop-thread.html#post1565396


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## Deleted member 49710 (Oct 6, 2012)

*If you find this*...
mild language


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## Wessik (Oct 6, 2012)

*Out to Sea*

*MATURE THEMES*


"But you could have!" The old man smirked with incredulity. She was eighteen years old, bedecked in a translucent white camisole and boy-short underwear as white as well. The two of them sat around a glass chessboard which was bolted on a table made of fiberglass. Itself in turn was bolted to the yacht. They were not so far from land that seagulls didn't fly. She had chatted eagerly, for she was always trying to impress. But now the conversation fell to lag, and a cool and slow, insistent breeze lapped up the edges of her camisole. There, in the brown, rust-reddish light of the evening sun, they floated, each thinking of the opportunities now available, and of opportunities long missed.

She gave a girlish laugh, tilting her head to one side. "Yes, I could have, but I was nervous...! I mean, stealing it... I couldn't have." She held her left arm by the side, and her right arm across her waist, as she leaned in towards him. She stole a glimpse of his rugged face and chest. He was sixty, but his scalp was filled with hair, and his chest still held at least eight packs! "You're so bad. I can't be like you." She teased. Her eyes looked down at the chessboard, and though she could not see it, her side was one till mate.

He moved over to her side, and wrapped his arms around her. "You're not possibly going to tell me that you didn't take that jewelry because--you were nervous? Where is that little girl I knew who was brave enough to stick a knife in her mother's back, mm?" He began to gently tug on her earlobe with his teeth and lips. She could feel his warm breath upon her neck and shoulders. Her body squirmed and writhed, and she gasped in pleasure.

"No, no, please stop! Not now. Not yet!" He stopped. Their eyes locked, and her pulse would not cooperate. He was a lion, large and powerful, and she was a baby antelope, too scared to move or look away. He was a Grecian statue, carved of marble and granite, with a body and face like an Olympian God, and she was a young and innocent temple maiden, flushed with submissive awe. Powerful, successful, and rich, he had pulled her into a winding game of cat and mouse. He always pursued her. She always ran away. But now she thought, "How long can I keep this up? How long could he possibly stay?"

The old man turned aside and stared out to the sea. He did not see the ocean though, as much as he saw her body and her form, all perfect and all flawless. He saw her long and black and lustrous hair, her flame red tiny mouth, her slender waist, and long white legs. She was his sixteenth maiden. She was also perfect, as had all the others been. But... perfect china isn't perfect once it's used. And so he woke up every morning thinking, "She is perfect", but went to sleep each night and thought, "not for long, not for long..."


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## alanmt (Oct 7, 2012)

*Reunion Point 650 words*

*Reunion Point
*
“No offense, lady, but you look a little old for cold water diving. I ain’t got the liability insurance for it.”

Kenny didn’t have liability insurance, period. But with the college kids he usually took diving, he didn’t worry that much. They were young and healthy. 

“Oh, I’m not diving,” said Old Lady Callaghan, as she was known in the village. “You are, young man.”

“What? You wanna pay me money to go out on the water and watch me dive? That don’t make no sense.” That didn’t matter to Kenny, though. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do it. Just seems a bit odd.”

“Just humor an old woman,” she said. “It’s been fifty years since my Scottie died out at sea, and I just want you to take a little token down and lay it on the bottom where he went down. I got cash.”

She waved a handful of $100 notes clutched in arthritic fingers.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Kenny. “When you wanna go?” 

*  *  *

“My husband was a fisherman, you know,” said Old Lady Callaghan. Kenny pretended not to hear over the motor, but she kept speaking. “I begged him not to go out that day. I could feel the storm coming in my bones, even though the sky was clear. I asked him how we would make do, a young woman and two little babies, without him.  He swore it would be fine. He swore he would always be there to protect me. But he never came back, alive. Storm took lots of good men that day. My Scottie was the best.”

“Sorry ta hear that, Ma’am.” God would she never shut up? “Almost there. How do ya know he went down off Reunion Point, here?”

“He told me,” she said, matter-of-factly. Kenny pretended he hadn’t heard. Crazy old bat. He brought the boat to a stop, dropped anchor, and slipped into his diving gear. 

“What am I takin’ down for ya, ma’am?” he asked. She handed him a sturdy wet/dry bag. It was new, but otherwise unremarkable.

“You want me to leave this?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “That’s to bring the treasure back up in.”

“Treasure?” asked Kenny.

“My Scottie’s boat went down right next to an old wreck. I need a bag of gold, that’s all. Gotta get some help in. Otherwise the kids’ll be shipping me off to assisted living in Lobster Bay. I don’t want to leave my place on the cliff.”

“How do ya know about the shipwreck?”

“Scottie told me,” said Old Lady Callaghan. Crazy old bat, thought Kenny again.

*  *  *

But she was right, thought Kenny, as he slowly rose to the surface, heavy bag in tow. Crazy old bat was right. Chests and chests of old gold. Which would soon be his. Why waste it on an old lady?

*  *  *

She was counting the gold when he moved up behind her with the hammer. As he lifted it to strike, he felt a searing cold in his heart. He looked down to see a ghostly hand sticking out from his chest, and then collapsed. He felt frozen, dying of cold. Through a haze of pain, he saw the old lady turn around.

“Scottie, my love,” she said. “You didn’t kill him, I hope?”

Kenny saw a spirit pass above him, translucent and dressed as though an old time fisherman.

“He’ll live a bit,” said the apparition. “We’ll have some time together this time, my dear. But you have to stop putting yourself in danger.”

“I can’t, dear,” she said. “You know that. The only thing that binds you to this earth is your promise to protect me.”

“I’ll always be here to protect you,” the ghost said.

“And I’ll always make sure that I need protecting, my love. One murderous opportunist at a time.”

“Ah,  Maggie, I’ve missed you. How are the kids?”


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## HKayG (Oct 8, 2012)

*Out At Sea 
*(650 Words)

 “Father! We don’t have to do this!”  The King looked at his daughter, her golden hair flowing with the movement of the sea.  He stood proud and tall, his bare chest still muscle bound despite his age, his trident gleaming, ever loyal, at his side.
“Thalia” he took his child’s chin delicately in his fingers “we have reached an impasse, we cannot let the Nymphs have their way. The sea belongs to us by rights.  They shouldn’t have crossed my kingdom.  They shouldn’t have taken our family.” Thalia’s eyes looked at the ocean floor.

It was true; they had first taken her mother which began the feud.  And then they had stupidly killed her sister in plain sight.  The blood had twirled in the waters around them for many days, a most cruel reminder.

But Thalia was not worried about the war.  She wanted to kill, to reap revenge for her lost ones.  But there was one that she couldn’t bare to see hurt.  Even if he had betrayed her.
“Tomlin was a good man, it was a shame he was born to a Siren.  They know how to manipulate people.  Thalia, look at me” her eyes turned to her fathers own, truer than the blue of the ocean around them “Don’t lose your head now, the men draw strength from you.  You’re our best fighter” his hand dropped from her chin and smiled roguishly “after your old man of course!”  Thalia smiled weakly at her father.

The nymph’s had been so careless.  They had always been devious, but to plot war with the Merfolk was beyond stupidity.

Thalia proceeded to line up her weapons on the stone table before them.  The sashes hung over her hips, each home to a forearm length knife. The sashes that crossed over her slender shoulders and muscular back held onto her trident, a miniature of her father’s own.

Tomlin had trained her.  The nights they had spent together on those sun streaked days had been more than she dared to hope for.  He had consoled her after her mother had been taken, he had treated her as someone normal, not royal.  She recalled a picture of him in her mind.  The day she met him.  His jet black hair swaying lazily, his finely carved arms and chest gleaming in the sea as he helped a dolphin from a fisherman’s net.  His eyes as precious as an ocean-made pearl.  And now she must fight him, or watch him die by someone else’s hands.

She would let no other kill him.

The war horn’s noise reverberated throughout the stone of the kingdom as Thalia and her father made their way to the battle field.  They swayed gently in front of the wide open space, the white of the sand going further than their keen eyes could see, only interrupted by the figures of the opposite army.  A lone jellyfish floated by in the middle of the battle field.

“My subjects!” the king roared to all the Merfolk behind him “It is time that we put an end to those Nymph’s treacherous ways! We gave them our home, we shared with them our seas – and they took from us our families, our livestock, our trade!  We will not let them take our homes!  We will not let them take our pride!” A great roar waved through the sea not unlike the waves that crashed above them.  The sea was dark with foreboding.  It was she that led the charge.

“For our kingdom!” Her army surged forward behind her.  She slipped through the water, darting straight through the middle of the enemy’s army.  She was looking only for one person.

“Thalia!” she turned as the voice called her name.
“Tomlin”.  Her eyes coolly took him in.

The battle became a war.  The war became a legend.  Thalia became the sea’s fiercest warrior known simply as ‘The Barracuda’.


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## morc44u (Oct 8, 2012)

The Bottle of Beer

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...2-lm-out-sea-workshop-thread.html#post1566665


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## thecostumedanceparty (Oct 9, 2012)

*Where's the trunks?            *

       The sand never felt so soft beneath me.  Through my salty vision, I opened my eyes and looked up to see three girls in bikinis laughing hysterically.  It was my sister Hayley, and her two smoking hot friends, Leila and Kylie.  I had no idea why they were laughing so much.

      "David, your bathing suit..." laughed Leila, pointing at my butt.  "It's gone."

      My face burned with the intensity of jalapeno peppers.  I realized why they were laughing now.  When I rode the wave in, my trunks must have come off.  I was at a public beach, at the feet of the two most beautiful girls, absolutely naked.  Thank God I was stomach down.  

I didn't know what to do, or what to say.  If I got up, things would be worse.  And all the while more kids were walking over the beach and smirking in my direction.  I had to do something. I casually inched like an earthworm toward the water.  Of course, my sister and her friends thought the whole thing was hilarious.

              I inched myself along until I was completely submerged in the water.  Finally, no one could see my exposed butt roasting in the hot sun.  My sister and her friends were still laughing as they came in the water after me. 

"So, where are my trunks?" I asked.  "C'mon, seriously..."

Kylie giggled as she picked up my blue swim trunks.  "If you want it, come and get it."

"Give them back!"  I yelled, though it was no use.  The girls were laughing as they tossed around my swim trunks.  I was stuck in a game of Monkey in the Middle, and the problem was if I moved too much, they'd see.  

"David lost his trunks... David lost his trunks," my sister laughed as I shuffled between the laughing girls, trying to swipe the suit out of their hands.  It was no use.

I had three options.  I could just sit in the water and do nothing.  I could run out of the water as fast as I could and hope that no one would see me running naked to grab a towel from our beach.  Or I could wrestle down one of the girls until they gave me my suit back.  That wasn't the wisest idea because they could still see me exposed, and it's never good to tackle a girl.

"Hey, David.  Catch me if you can!"  It was Kylie, the cute blonde girl.  She was swimming out deeper into the water.  I swam out to reach her, though she was a much better swimmer than I.  We were pretty far out in the ocean and the waves were pretty big.  I was scared to go much farther.

That's when she chucked my trunks as far as she could into the deep water.  I wanted to kill her.  I thought about going up to her and untying her top, but that's not the kind of guy I am.  

I decided not to go out any farther.  It's already deep enough.  But I definitely think about it.  I stare at my trunks, just floating out at sea and I wish I had arms fifty feet long.  

And that's when I saw the jet-ski come.  It came from the left.  And just my luck, it ran over my floating bathing suit, splitting it into two.  This got the girls laughing even more. Now I was pissed.  

What could I do?  Even if I got my trunks, I couldn't wear them.  They were obliterated. Kylie manages to swim out to get half of my suit, though by now it didn't matter.

What a day that was.  I will always remember.  I had stayed the whole day in the water, praying for the sun to go down.  And that's when I finally got out of the water.


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## MisterTribute (Oct 10, 2012)

Unrequited


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## Bloggsworth (Oct 10, 2012)

And a dictionary to look up how the spell the word manoeuver?


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## GonneLights (Oct 10, 2012)

*Out at Sea: Journal of a Clairvoyant Door-Salesman

*by Jack Blackwood

Room light and Everything. The Demon grabbed what harbours he saw around Croatia, all the demons in that house were French, and dawdled to the anchorages across this stretch of land, and time spent being safe at the west.

Greece gives way to Italy, off toward what was the remains of the Northern Islands. Back, then left. Demon's garage door was open when he left. Door left running like the Venetians, you could say. Greece came out, there were so many cats at  the harbour houses; Catholics. Demon shivered.

Notoriously there-off stood Selcuks, through our encounter (time here was especially wavy) with the Coast-Ghost Room and at dark night through some light. A light-all, maybe. What I would have liked would be local, packed out and didn't want her parents there. Moved on. 

Over the Adriatic archipelago now, away and around. I left my nephews running the house all year. Eddy was up-tight, and insisted on coming with me. He said we'd "Barter doors for our lot on whoever we saw on the way." We had agreed towards a direction and packed what little my friend hadn't kept locked. Tools, mostly.

Southern hotels were all full. Proprietors held a torch for Romans in Mercedes. A girl as easy as early summer came down to my living quarters. I was at breakfast and later learnt that she was a folky sent down by my Nephew (Eddie) and Demon. My time there packed out roughly, though, because we were in Croatia.

The sink clogged up with hair. Well, thats the geographical flaw coming up from these rooms. All cut together and facing. Asked which of this Southern kitchen I could use. She was on to me, I think. This means we'll have to pack up and head east. Demon seduced a Mercedes out of her, maybe.

Go-time meant un-anchoring daughter-supernatural, to go east. I'm human; particularly easy on Demon, not like other visitors heading to the Harbour Hall. All would like Mediterranean Demons, I guess. We followed back spirits to The One, on the way Venetians, Taco, a left wife, and cultural freaks in the west.

Demon turned all girly on a potter because, I guess, if that's all you wanted it wouldn't matter. Got access to a long kitchen, and one of the first ghosts we saw on the strip. Long hair. It takes the effort, but it's worth it. Headed back to the harbour and sailed on to Levant. 

The world direction seemed to be Croatia, at least that's what the currents say. My food-head caused me to make a hairdresser at night. Got her hooked on a door that just divides anything inside. The Demon? He never went with it, which suited me. Took some of her hair for it and headed on. Aegean Cruising through archipelagos leading us down 14 on fluorescent Italy.

Cruising-wise it was like hallway visiting. Torches light the way, all light could have led to The One. Instead we followed some Egypt Muslims back to their nature, good to know I guess. When they saw us they freaked out on Demon and locked him in the kitchen. Think. Out-do. Didn't. Between lot an Demon that door closed,  lost him. Back to the house to the meet travel time. Black harbours usually full of nook and carrying…

Trip came to an end. One of the time-houses just asked if their kitchen became demonic. This is some girls jet house, very open or too locked. Light/One and Room Encounter on the Syria Venetians, and headed back easily toward her tower bloc. It was late p.m. or so, and day-sailing had paid off by way of Houses of History and lectures from vestiges (Eddie) "Bartering Light Strategies. Yachts on the Genoese." My quest was always as follows; Grab civilisations by the balls, each of which were 5'-6".​​


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## LaughinJim (Oct 11, 2012)

The Secret of Ice Island

The blue catboat beat into the wind with determination. Lensor had shot the sun with his astrolabe at noon, port time. According to his chart, he was near the gateway. The sun beat down, heating his face and bare-chested skin. He wore a white, wall-ball hat to protect his bald pate from burning. Stowed in a hatch in the forecastle were his furs. The gate approached as his skin began to tingle. With tiller lashed, he went forward to unpack the stowed winter gear. A mist descended when he got back astern. He donned the clothing as a cold wind began to whip.

He could feel the boat lurch as the wind direction changed and increased in velocity. The fog cut visibility to nothing and then started to lift. Lensor looked at his compass and corrected his course back twenty-two degrees. He was fortunate the sail didn’t jibe. When the fog cleared the formerly blue sky had turned a uniform overcast gray. The sea was choppy but the wind wasn't gusty. He reckoned it would take him to Ice Island in four hours.

This was his fourth and final voyage there. Most ventures never made it back from the first. He had achieved the completion of his last task: the purpose of his third talisman had been fulfilled. The first was the key; the second, the rule; and the third was the sword. Each object was received on Ice Island and when the purpose of each was fulfilled, it became encased in a glass cube. The crystal was then returned to the island for the next. When he had slain the Kraznakoff, the task of the sword was done. 

His wife made the fur suit for him and saw him off at the dock early, one week ago. All the other candidates had failed their tasks of the sword and died. He had the hardest for he had chosen last. The Kraznakoff, the possessor of souls and deceiver of men was brutal and cruel. It took a mortal blow to the lower back to disable him and the coup de grace was a thrust in the neck. He took the severed head back to their community and the town turned out to cheer.

A berg appeared in the gloom. A volcanic islet, black from ash and white from snow, grew ever closer. The truncated cone of live volcano smoked gently. Lensor steered his boat into the lonely slip, made by God knows who. He disembarked.

The path was familiar. Black crushed stone kept clear of snow by some divine magic. He held the final cube of glass in his hand. The miniaturized sword, now gilded, embedded and set obliquely, corner to corner in the crystal, vibrated in his hand. As he approached the slope of the mountain, the path turned to periodic rough-hewn steps. They continued up the volcano, increasing in frequency as the pitch of the mountain changed. The spiral went on as far as he could see up to the rim.

At the rim, the slope plunged down toward the steamy, sulfurous caldera. The steam concealed the stairway’s end. He descended and his eyes began to burn from the acidic vapors. His breathing became painful, but his direction was clear. There was no turning back. Lensor disappeared into the acrid mist and had trouble seeing and maintaining his balance. He tripped and all went black.

When he woke, he was in a bed. A white ceiling filled with pictures of dragons and heroes with swords was all that he could see.

“Breakfast, Lenny,” a woman’s voice called. His mother?

A man’s voice: “Sixteen years, bud, learner’s permit today, I’ll take you after you eat. Excited?”

His father stood over him.

“I had a dream, really long. I can’t remember it.”

“I’m sure it will come back -- little by little,” his father said with a knowing smile.


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## Jeko (Oct 12, 2012)

*Dartman's Principle
*​(mild language!)​
_Between the waters of Altere and Naga lies Dartman’s Principle, both the island and the force it was hence named after. Dartman, the greediest king, was discovered buried at its centre.
_
It was Aldrich who had moored them on the island. Three days, three _bloody _days his men kept repeating, and all because of his stupid treasure. Captain or not, they all thought him a fool. It wouldn’t be long before it became a week, then a month, then a year. Then forever.

It was taking its toll on the Captain’s daughter, Alle. She was a little thing of twelve years and high spirits, always belonging out at sea with the spray in her face or the storm raging on her cabin window as she read Huck Finn and other wild tales of boyish bravery. Now she was quiet, subtle. No more arm-wrestles with the other young scamps or sudden dips when the waters were calm. She kept to herself, and had been since they’d arrived.

Tyr, son of the first mate, found her meandering along the shoreline one bright afternoon and made to speak to her. He passed her boots first, discarded at the ship’s crest, and then kept after her as she went her aimless way. He caught flashes of the sunlight on the bare skin beneath her leggings, lighting it up as if it was made of milk and honey. Once close, he could smell the whiff of lavender around her and make out the flecks of the flower she’d scattered about her hair. She had very long hair.

‘I say,’ she started, catching wind of Tyr’s proximity, ‘if we are another day here I’ll lie on the sand and do none else than sleep until we leave.’ She stopped and turned. ‘It would be as dull.’

‘It would,’ Tyr agreed. ‘But what of the treasure?’

‘The treasure?’ Alle scoffed.

‘Aye, the treasure.’

Alle let a sigh pass and said, ‘It might be.’

‘Might be?’ Tyr echoed. He laughed. ‘That’s no pirate talk.’

‘And that’s no pirate ship either.’ Tyr took a glance at the Embassy, slicing across the beach. ‘Unless the Brits don’t want it back.’

‘We gotta find the treasure, Alle. _Alle_.’ She was distant. ‘We ain’t here for no other reason.’

Another sigh, longer. Alle looked resigned to something, something Tyr could not fathom. He watched as she turned from him and marked out a small cross in the sand with her toe.

‘Any reason for that?’ Tyr asked her.

‘Some fool’ll put shovel here,’ she said with a smile. ‘But they’ll never know where to dig.’

It was Tyr’s turn to sigh. ‘I know, the Captain is without a map, but-‘

Alle dug under her blouse and pulled out a large stone, blood –red, dressed in its gold casing and long chain. She raised it over her head and freed it from her neck, letting it dangle from her fingers.

‘Dartman’s Principle,’ she said. ‘Any of the offices’ll pay good coin for this.’

Tyr recalled its bounty. ‘Good coin?’ He was entranced by its sparkle. 

‘Enough for a ship of your own.’

Tyr was stunned, full of thoughts. ‘You think we could-‘

‘We? Who’s we?’

‘Pirates gotta stick together, Alle,’ he reasoned. He let the words hang with anticipation. The sea washed close to them, and Alle looked to it dreamily.

‘We could,’ Alle said softly, fingering the jewel. And then, nearly whispering, ‘We could go looking for our own treasure.’

‘And war with scoundrels!’ Tyr exclaimed. Alle smiled at him, and said no more.


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## bazz cargo (Oct 13, 2012)

The Wreck Of The Dreary Mare.
 By
 Bazz Cargo.


 A spaceman's fear is hearing something unexpected. Like a hiss of escaping air. Or in this case, the stuttering end to the rocket motor. Just five minutes into the low parabola that would take me from Tycho City to Copernicus depot. That would put me deep in the Mare Nubuim.  


 “Computer!” No reply. I slapped my hand on the chair arm. _Idiot_. No voice command and control. That is the thing about traveling in a Luna Hopper, they are designed to shift stuff not people. It is just a cargo carrying cube  with a tiny motor and no frills.  


 Seat of the pants guesstimate. Seventeen minutes until a spectacular crash. I eyed the interior. Desperate times require desperate measures. Fortunately, rock-hounds like me never go anywhere without their tools.  


 To make sure the hopper flew hot, straight and normal the payload was netted and suspended in the center of the box. Taking a knife I made an incision in the netting. As fast as I could I pulled everything out and let it fall gently to the floor. I put my helmet and gloves on. Then climbed into the  now vacant cargo restraints.  I leaned through the netting, turned up my laser cutter to max and burned a ring around the load. The floor gave and the load slowly fell away.  As the air started to jet out the hopper started  slowly to tumble.  


 Time. Seventeen minutes came and went. So did eighteen, nineteen. I was wondering if I was going to miss the moon. At twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds the tumbling hopper touched regolith and everything went mental.


 What felt like a decade long spin-cycle in the largest washing machine in the universe finally came to an end. It took a full ten minutes before I could stand up and make my way out through  a gaping split where two walls once met.


 I checked out the suit systems. Everything was functioning correctly. I had five hours of air. Plenty. Traffic control would have noticed the crash and be sending the nearest warm bodies to rescue the load, that had been jettisoned, before it was stolen.


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## JackKnife (Oct 13, 2012)

*In Memoriam* (Mild language)

Well, here we are – out at sea. Well, the shore anyway. You always loved it here, didn’t you, girl? We’d run and run, you’d chase me, I’d fall on my ass and you’d be there beside me, pulling me up. The sun would sleep before we ever did.

Things weren’t always like this.

Before me, there was another guy. He didn’t love you the way I did, did he, girl? He hurt you. Spent no time with you. It’s a wonder you ever opened your heart to me. At first, every time I moved or spoke, your brown eyes went so wide and you’d slouch and cry and I’d hold you, hold you real close, and stroke your long dark hair for hours.

We became inseparable.

You protected me from everything – hell, everyone. There was this family, they moved into the house attached to ours, and God forbid, they were a… they were a coloured family. You never liked the black folk. I had to explain it to them, that my girl wasn’t prejudiced, she was just protecting me. They understood. They were good people. You’d yell at ‘em, they’d laugh… good times.

I remember this one day – you were in the front room, like always, waiting for me to come home. Months before, I’d pre-ordered the newest iPhone, and when I got in the driveway, the mailman was just leaving. He waved and smiled at me and I did the same, vibrating in my seat like a teenager on prom night. Imagine how pissed I was to get in the door and find that package smashed on the floor with you sitting beside it, pleased as the cat that caught the Tweety bird. Bits of plastic and glass and metal everywhere! It took me months to find them all. I always knew you didn’t get technology, but _damn_.

I sit by the shore, where the sand’s imprinted from all the time we spent laying here under the stars. You don’t fit anymore, in that spot in front of me. It makes my eyes hot and the sunset hazy.

I remember how it ended. It only took two weeks. You didn’t want to come with me anymore. You just laid around, frail and listless. You wouldn’t eat. The doctor told me it was over. I told her to get the hell out of my house. I wasn’t giving up on you.

I cooked everything for you – rice, chicken, hamburger, noodles, but even that stopped after a while. Soon enough, all you wanted was rest. You lost so much weight. You couldn’t even walk, but that didn’t stop you from trying. You’d wobble here and there and then collapse again and I’d spend all night up with you, bawling my eyes out because I knew.

God dammit, that was the worst part – when I finally knew.

It was when the seizures started. I had to cover you, keep your tongue from your throat, and lie that everything was okay. I called the doctor again. I told her she was right and to come back.

An hour before she came, you left.

It’s easier when you’re with me, girl. It always has been. But this is where it all began for us two. This is where you started teaching me to live. To appreciate and protect what’s precious to you. Look upon others with love. Play when you can – sleep when you can’t. Always look ahead.

With a stiff clink, your urn opens. It takes all my strength to lift this tiny thing and step to the sea’s edge. I choke back a sob. Your big brown eyes are telling me it’s gonna be okay, and this time, it ain’t a lie.

So here you go, girl. Run free. Swim like we used to. I’ll see you again one day, on the Rainbow Bridge.


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## garza (Oct 14, 2012)

*The Cast and Tangle School of Fishing*
_Further Adventures of Mike and Bernie
_
Anchor-shaped Cat Island lies nine miles south of Gulfport, surrounded by the warm waters of the Mississippi Sound. With its bayous, sloughs, and swamps, Cat Island is a favourite year-round destination for local fishermen as well as visitors. Last January our two old friends abandoned their snow-covered Central Park bench, travelled south from New York, and two days later were sitting in a rented skiff in the sheltered waters of North Bayou.

'You're hopeless,' said Bernie.

'I think I got it this time,' said Mike.

'No, you don't. It's tangled worse than ever.'

'I guess you never tangled a fishing line.'

'Not since I was about three years old.'

'Gimme your knife.'

'No.'

'What am I s'posed to do?'

'Relax. Study the tangle. See what loops can be pulled through other loops without making the tangle worse. Work them out one by one until the core of the tangle starts to loosen. Then be careful not to pull on anything that might tighten it again.'

'I don't got that kinda patience.' 

'Then don't call yourself a fisherman. Or a grammarian.'

'Always with the grammar. Don't you ever relax?'

'I'm a teacher.'

'Retired teacher.'

'Still a teacher.'

'So teach already. Show me how to get this tangle out.'

Bernie reeled in his line, hooked the grey _Strike King_® minnow on an eye of the rod, and lay rod and reel on the raised floorboards of the skiff.

'Gimme it,' said Bernie. 

'Anh-anh, teach. Say it right.'

After a minute the silence was broken by two sea gulls quarrelling over something they'd found. Then Bernie spoke.

'Give. It. To. Me.'

'Did I hear periods in there? There were periods in there. Points off for punctuation. And you call yourself a teacher. Now show me.'

Mike handed over his rod and reel.

For the next ten minutes all was quiet as Bernie first studied the tangle, then carefully pulled it apart. 

'You need patience, Mike. First to learn to use your new rod and reel so you don't get a tangle. Second to learn to take the tangle apart when you get one. Here.'

Bernie handed back Mike's rod and reel, picked up his own, and with an easy cast dropped his lure on the edge of marsh grass about ten yards from the boat. Mike made his cast. He used about two yards of line, all in a tangle hanging from the bail on his reel. 

Bernie had a strike and reeled in a three-pound speckled trout. 

'This reel's no good,' said Mike.

'I'm using the same model. Remember we bought 'em same time at Capitol on West 36th. It's a good reel.'

'So show me how to use it.'

'You played baseball when you were a kid.'

'Shortstop. What's that got to do with fishing?'

'Listen and learn. When you snagged a grounder, how much time did you spend aiming for the first baseman's mitt?'

'No time.'

'How many times did you miss?'

'Never.'

'You worked on making that throw, didn't you?'

'Every day after school.'

'You trained your eyes, brain, and muscles to make a baseball go where you wanted. Now we'll train your eyes, brain, and muscles to make a lure go where you want. Take the lure off your line and tie on this weight.'

'No fish gonna bite that,' said Mike.

'You're going to use it to learn. There's no hook to get stuck on anything while you practise.'

For the next hour Bernie explained, demonstrated, and guided Mike in casting with an open-face spinning reel. At the end of the hour Mike could put the dummy plug wherever he wanted within a few yards of the boat.

'I'm getting it, Bernie. 

'Yes, you are,' said Bernie. 'Keep working on accuracy. Distance will come naturally.'

'Maybe I ain't hopeless.'

'Aren't, Mike. Maybe you _aren't_ hopeless.'

'Maybe I ain't, but you are.'


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## Jon M (Oct 14, 2012)

Shooting Stars​


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## Dave Watson (Oct 14, 2012)

Coming Home


In front of Frank, HD image after HD image appeared on the monitor. 

Anna. Jacob. The ocean.  

Photographs he'd taken of those three subjects in an infinite slideshow; every image beautifully shot and displayed on screen for a few glorious seconds in high resolution, full colour splendour.

Anna last Christmas, wearing reindeer antlers and a plastic red nose as she winked suggestively over one perfectly formed shoulder. 

Jacob, minutes after he was born. Tiny. Helpless. His universe. 

A spectacular stormy seascape that he remembered capturing during a squall in the Indian Ocean. _National Geographic_ had paid extremely well. 

Anna. Jacob. The ocean.  

The three were intrinsically linked in his mind. A freelance nautical photographer, Frank had met Anna on an oceanography expedition. A marine biologist, she loved the ocean as much as he did. The day they met, she'd said that being out at sea, so far from shore that you couldn't see land in any direction, felt like coming home to her. He'd known right then that he loved her. A year later, they'd been married, and Jacob, conceived on a yacht some four hundred nautical miles southwest of Fiji, had come along soon after. 

They'd been dead two weeks now. Anna had gone to pick Jacob up from nursery, leaving Frank in the house reviewing shots from his last assignment. A car crash. Just like that. 

Gone.

In the black days since the funeral, Frank hadn't left the house, picked up the phone, answered the door or checked his email. He'd wandered, ghostlike through the big empty house, touching their things, smelling their clothes, going room to room in a grief shattered daze.

He found a small measure of peace in the photographs. Although his tears often caused the images on the screen to appear as if they were rendered in salted watercolours, Frank's skill and the high end equipment used in capturing the stills meant they were heart rending in their detail. Every beloved individual hair, delicate fold of ear and curve of jaw looked real enough to touch. He longed to be able to push his hands into Anna's hair, run his finger down the middle of Jacob's nose in that way that'd always made him giggle… God, to hear his son giggle again… They were right there on screen in front of him, achingly close, yet forever beyond his reach. 

Tears blinding him, Frank reached towards Anna's smiling digitized face. The picture was from her last birthday. "I miss you," he whispered.

As his fingertips made contact with the screen, he felt a sudden current tingle up his arm. He instinctively tried to jerk his hand away, but somehow found that he couldn't. Strangely, he felt no fear.

Anna's portrait abruptly dissolved, and was replaced with a shot depicting a gigantic whirlpool. He'd taken the shot off the coast of Japan years ago. As Frank watched, the swirling vortex slowly began to _move_, spinning round the darkened eye at the centre, where his fingers were still somehow stuck to the screen. The whirlpool on the monitor began to churn faster; an aquatic black hole sucking in everything around it. Frank watched with amazement as it appeared to swallow his fingers, then his hand. 

On the screen, the violently foaming whirlpool seemed to slowly expand outward, impossibly increasing in size and filling his vision until it was the only thing Frank could see. He could hear it now too; a colossal liquid rushing and roaring. The studio around him faded away, and then there was only the vortex; the forgiving, cleansing maelstrom that called to him. He felt it suck out the heart breaking grief and loneliness, like poison from a wound. 

_Out at sea… it's like coming home_, a treasured voice whispered in his mind. 

"I'm coming home, babe," Frank murmured, an overwhelming flood of love washing him away as the vortex swallowed him whole.


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## InsanityStrickenWriter (Oct 14, 2012)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...2-lm-out-sea-workshop-thread.html#post1568128


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## Foxee (Oct 15, 2012)

Nooseworthy Vacation
_
Wherein Thomas goes to the Bahamas and finds a mystery he'd rather forget._


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