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Writing in the mist.
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: KK PUBLISHERS
ISBN-10: 9781523335558
Type: Fiction
Pages: 307
Copyright: Feb,2014
ISBN-13: 1523335556
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
A haunting tale of tragedy, mystery, and adventure set in the period preceding World War II.
Floating on a box in the middle of the ocean and on the brink of death, a young castaway has a strange dream that he believes is a key to his identity. Confusion reigns when during the course of the next few harrowing days, the first dream is followed by two further dreams that are seemingly unrelated.
Are the dreams flashbacks of his past or some other form of communication? Will he survive to solve the riddle?
Excerpt
There was no sense of how long I had been in the water . . . minutes . . . hours . . . maybe even days. My head felt like there was a group of conga players inside, each member deciding to break into a solo that was louder and more dramatic than the next. It wouldn’t have felt so bad if they weren’t using the inside of my skull to play on. The pain from the gash across my forehead added to the agony of the incessant drumming.
Where the hell was I and how did I get here? I tried desperately to remember anything that would offer some explanation.
Turning my head slowly, I attempted to look around. There was nothing but darkness, but I could feel the water all around me—the gentle ebb and flow of the tide pushing against my torso and legs—and taste the saltiness when it touched my lips and entered my open mouth. I could make out a dark curtain in the distance, puffy in places as a glimmer of light threatened to break through like an approaching automobile’s headlamps in a thick, low-lying fog. Instead, it remained stationary, never appearing as I had anticipated.
It was strange, but I didn’t feel cold or hungry, only nausea from an overdose of seawater cocktails and seaweed salad.
Something was keeping me afloat—something wooden that I had grabbed hold of—a large piece of driftwood, or a plank. Not being able to make out what it was, I decided to move around to the opposite side. Caution was required, as I didn’t want to lose it.
It wasn’t just a piece of wood; it was some kind of rectangular box that had most probably fallen off a ship or a harbor wall somewhere. It dawned on me that it might be possible to climb on top of it. It looked like it would stay afloat if I did. The flip side was that it might just start to leak and sink into the depths below, but I had to try. The water surrounding me was eerily calm and I bobbed up and down on the rippled surface as I contemplated my next move.
There didn’t seem to be a place where I could get a grip and pull myself up. With a groan, I slipped back from my first attempt resolving that the surface was too slippery. Groping around on the top, I felt what appeared to be a joint—a groove—that would accommodate the tips of my fingers. I cursed openly when the weathered wood left splinters in my hand.
Reaching out with my other hand, I tried to find another handhold. My head buzzed and I wished that the drumming in my head would stop, but the drummers seemed determined to play even louder when I moved around.
There was only one chance of success, and I knew that I did not have the willpower or the strength to repeat the process. Grimacing and straining, I pulled myself upwards. It felt like someone had attached weights to my legs that were pulling me downwards—holding me back. I was almost there—almost out of the medium that threatened to shrivel me up like an old prune.
My stomach twisted when I felt my wet fingers slip out of the half-inch crevice. There was a feeling of suspension before I fell backwards into the waiting ocean below.
Slipping below the surface, a dark, bubbling mass held me with invisible hands as the sound of the rushing water entered my ears and nose, and fear gripped my insides. Panic struck me with the realization that I was about to drown.
I fought against what I thought was impending death, my terror brought about by the darkness of my surroundings more than the absence of air and my frenzied breathing. At the point when my lungs were about to burst, and the blackness was about to overwhelm me, I broke the surface like a desperate hatchling escaping from the egg in which it was created.
The intense feeling of trepidation loosened its grip slightly while I gasped for air and spewed saltwater back from whence it came. There was no time for weakness or nausea as a second wave of fear threatened to paralyze me when I realized that the dark depths were beckoning me to return.
My wooden companion was probably long gone—swept away by the current—leaving me to die slowly when my body succumbed to the will of a liquid assassin intent on furnishing me with a watery grave.
I was wrong.
It moved gently in the undulating waves less than an arm’s length away like a trusty steed waiting for its rider.
At first tears of emotion rose within me, but they were quickly replaced by a rising sense of anger. The ocean dared to take my life, and I was almost too weak to resist it.
Rank determination took over and summoning every ounce of my available strength, I reached up to the surface of the box riveting all my fingers into the joint that had rejected me with such contempt before. My aching muscles strained when I hurled myself upward—my nails biting into the splintered wood—as I let out a cry of desperation that echoed across the watery plains. Coughing and straining to catch my breath, I lay outstretched on the flat wooden surface, while the drumming in my head seemed to reach a climax.
The wooden box remained afloat—unperturbed by my presence and weight—swaying gently in the placid water.
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