4. Flash Fiction: Shipwreck
Emily Barnett hosts a flash fiction challenge on Instagram every Friday. (Flash fiction, for those of you who don’t know, is a type of fiction that is very short, usually no more than a few hundred words.) I’m sharing my contributions on my blog for those who don’t follow me on Insta. Use the button at the bottom of this post to sign up and get any new blog posts straight to your inbox.
This piece features two of the characters from my current novel WIP (Work In Progress). It’s a short “how they met” scene that takes place years prior to the events of my urban fantasy series.
He squinted at the wreck of the ship’s rigging, ropes now tangled in what had been massive canvas sails.
If only that was his biggest problem.
Heaving a sigh from his shoulders down to his feet — admittedly a less-than-imposing distance — Digory rubbed a hand over his dark hair and turned to peer across the quarterdeck. No, the real problem was that he stood on a shipwrecked frigate kitted out with all the most modern fittings for 1715 — a frigate that he’d just sailed through a blip in time and space and crashed rather spectacularly off the coast of Virginia more than three hundred years later.
Stifling a groan, he squinted at the signs of imminent rescue on the nearby beach. Should he leave the Winthrop to the locals and get Edna to send him back? If he did, perhaps Cornelius could—
A wave of grief slammed into him, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He’d forgotten. How had he forgotten so quickly? Tasting the salt on his lips, he wondered if it came from the sea, sweat, or the tears he’d shed three centuries and less than an hour ago.
He’d always intended to come back from the past eventually. Might as well be today.
A splash was his only warning.
“Good morning, sir,” said a rather breathless female voice. Whirling, Digory stared as a young woman hauled herself over the railing and joined him on deck, water streaming from her wetsuit and long brown hair.
He gaped at her like a fish.
“It’s all right, sir; you don’t have to explain,” she said, frowning at the wreck around them. “Cath found me last week. She told me everything.” She slid a glance at him. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
He blinked. “Thanks. I mean—” He floundered under the weight of too many questions. “Who is Cath?”
She grinned, her dark eyes brightening with humor. “We’ll get to that, Mr. Trumbull. I’m Annette Downing, and congratulations — hiring me was the best decision you ever made.”