This is my September entry for the Australian Writers' Centre's Furious Fiction competition. Once again, I wanted to try something a little different, so I approached this as if it were a lost H.P Lovecraft tale and tried to write it in a similar style. For those unfamiliar with Lovecraft, Innsmouth and all the Cthulhu stuff is lifted straight from his work. In retrospect I probably should've made that a bit more obvious. Nevertheless it was fun trying to recreate that feeling of dread and strangeness that characterise his weird tales, and the end result entertained me - which is the point of the whole endeavour. I hope you dig it too.
The rules:
In addition to the 500 word maximum and a three day window to write it, the rules for September were:
Each story had to be INSPIRED by the picture below.
Each story’s first word had to begin with the letters SHO.
Each story had to include the following words: SCORE, SLICE, SPRINKLE, STAMP and SWITCH (s/ed variations were allowed)
THE SPIRIT OF INNSMOUTH
Show me that picture again? It’s funny in a morbid kind of way, because
that life ring there in the centre is the only thing left of The Spirit of Innsmouth. She was a fine vessel. None better, in many
ways. Although in other, more accurate, ways there were many better vessels. For example, the ones that didn’t have a
Cthulhu Cult in the engine room. The ones that didn’t summon the Great Beast
two hours and forty five minutes into their maiden voyage. Those vessels, most
people would agree, were better.
Still, there are no official cruise ship rankings, as
far as I’m aware, and I can speak with authority to the fact that those first
two and a half hours were a largely pleasurable cruising experience, full of
excitement and anticipation and glasses of champagne and a wonderful sunset. That
last fifteen minutes though? I’ll be honest with you, my mind begs me to forget
it. For better clarity (and insurance purposes) let us switch to my journal’s attestations…
As the sun went down and darkness enveloped the ship,
we heard a strange noise emanating from the lower decks. A rhythmic pounding,
as if a multitude of feet were stamping on floor, and a sinister chant that cut
through the rumble.
It was no language I had ever heard on my travels, and
I am well travelled as I’m sure you are aware. Of course I know now, it was that
ancient and blasphemous tongue. The language of the damned, in which the
accursed Book Of The Dead, Necronomicon, was scribed in blood. Over and over it was recited. A hypnotically
syncopated mantra that continued as the sky above cracked. It went:
“CTHULHU R'LYEH"
Lightning momentarily illuminated a perilous sea that
had only moments before, been as calm as a summer’s eve. My fellow passengers
took quickly to panic. Their screams haunt my unconscious moments, still.
Alongside dreams of the Great Beast. The Captain ran out upon the deck, hair
torn from his head in clumps, a gibbering madman. Mesmerised, he stepped from
the prow of the ship into the broiling waters afore.
The seas shifted, a whirlpool materialised beneath us as
an ancient leviathan awakened and stirred in the deep. In an instant I knew our
ship was done for. A score of tentacles sliced
through the churning brine, rising from that dread sea and landing abreast of
me on deck. I dived for the life ring (in that very picture), but the others
were not so fortunate. As I dove overboard, taking my chances in the furious
waters, I saw those tentacles tear human beings asunder, sprinkling blood and
innards across the pristine bow of our once proud cruise liner.
The stricken vessel, now partially sunken, spun on its
axis before multitude tentacles dragged it to the depths. I swam for my life to
avoid the undertow and I am sure it is good fortune alone that allowed me to
wash ashore with my life intact.
