Flash fiction is fun. It’s easy, it’s fast, it’s bite sized! This piece has been kicking around my hard drive for a little while, so I decided to post it up here. Next post, I’ll talk about the awesomeness of flash fiction some more. For now, enjoy an example.
The captain cleaned his weapon. It was a lovely contraption, a convergence of metal and flame. In its bronze bulbs were the proper types and amounts of chemicals to rain fire and lead upon anyone or anything which threatened him. It was a hand-held beauty, but it had saved his life more times than he would admit to anyone but those of the cloth or a generous bartender. He slid it into his side holster.
The captain cleaned his goggles next. Tinted glass, golden rims, and soft leather eye cushions had spent so long on his face that his cheeks were imprinted with them. They had served well since he lost a toe because he was too busy wiping his eyes of salt water. He fastened them about his skull.
The captain cleaned his boots. Damn but it had been a long time since they’d touched land. And yet every time he thought to go to port, the sea lured him back.
The captain cleaned his ship. She was small but mighty. Tall boilers sat aft, churning in seawater to boil, the steam pushing her forward through storm, cyclone and calm. Her smooth brass banisters warmed to his hand like an old friend saying hello, sharing a joke.
The captain stepped forward and began to clean his main weapon. She sat at the fore, a rotating chair equipped with an enormous pneumatic harpoon. He checked the base, made certain that the trigger mechanism was prepared and functioning, and then rubbed upon the sharp barbs a poison which even the sea could not wash away. It gleamed in readiness as he stepped away.
The moon glowed from the depths of the ocean. He judged the chop of the sea. It was a calm night, but not too calm. Waves rolled about three feet up, cradling his ship without tossing it. The moon dipped and rose with the water, singing greetings to him, tempting his eyes to the night sky, to the mesmerizing stars. He didn’t bother looking up. The moon was where she belonged and so was he.
The captain went to his bird. The albatross had flopped onto his ship after a bad fight some years ago. He’d considered eating it at first, but the bird was so large and majestic that his hands had gone numb on the spine, and he had instead taken it in.
The albatross’ feet shifted. He leaned down and pressed a bit of oil into the foot he had fashioned of wire and leather for it.
“Calm night.” He murmured, feeding it some smoked fish.
The bird shifted, resettled its wings with a ruffle and a slight flinch of the head.
“Aye,” he murmured, and took a piece of fish for himself as he watched the sea, soon to be his battleground. Yes. All was prepared. Tonight he would finally taste victory. “Perfect night to hunt the Kraken.”