The Raft

By Kim McDougall

A storm approaches. They tell stories of vampires at sea. Some will live to regret that hubris.

Excerpt:

When the meager water-stores were gone, we drank the moisture from raw fish. The first time my lips touched that rubbery flesh, I gagged, but soon hunger won out and I chewed with determination.  I was glad we had thrown Melanie overboard.  I would have eaten anything by then. 

On the fourth day (or possibly the fifth), Theo’s uncomplaining manner irritated 

me.  He rebuffed all my attempts at conversation so I spoke to myself, and sang bawdy songs in a loud voice, hoping to get a rise out of him.  He ignored me.  The sun wore on, like a bludgeon beating me down, but I would not be daunted. 

“Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” I sang.  “Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” I dragged my leathery tongue over my lips, “early in the morning.”

I sang until my throat dried and then I sucked on a piece of fish to sooth it. 

“Put ‘im in the bed with the captain’s daughter…”  Theo watched me from his 

darkened cave.  “That’s what we do with the drunken sailor….” 

I collapsed.  Sometime in the night, Theo dragged me into the shelter. 

I won’t repeat the monotonous details of the following days.  Our time was 

structured around sun and fish.  Hunger and thirst battled with boredom for dominance. The fish were barely enough to sustain us. 

Nightmares plagued my sleep and hallucinations my waking hours.  Sea 

monsters, dripping with slime, fetid of breath and covered in rotted scales, climbed into the boat and wrapped their sucking tendrils around my throat. These visions worsened as I weakened.  The monsters morphed into Theo.  His eyes were dark and his fangs bone white in the moonlight.  His mocking grin split his face like the slash of a blade.  He lunged at my neck.  I fought him off with feeble blows and cries that were more like the mewling of a kitten. 

One morning, my thrashing knocked down the tarp.  The early sun was already 

hot.  Theo woke up screaming and I swear I saw his flesh smoke.  I threw my ragged shirt over him and fished the tarp out of the water.  When we were once again installed under our dripping shelter, I apologized, but Theo would not answer. That evening he came out into the cooler night air. 

“Why didn’t you burst into flame?” I asked.  “I mean, isn’t that what happens to 

vampires in the sun?”  Theo just glared at me and sucked on his fish.  Red welts pocked his face.

Lunch Was Not Enough

By Kim McDougall

An intimate message on a dead man’s phone leaves a widow to spiral out of control.

Excerpt:

If she was in denial of anything, it was the authenticity of the message that had appeared the day he died—before she had even known of his death.  The phone had been in his coat pocket.  Despite the piercing noise, she had taken her time rummaging through his coat to find it.  His musky smell was embedded in the fibers.  The rough tweed under her fingers was like his beard on her skin.  She tucked her hands into his sleeves and pressed them against her. 

The text message read: LUNCH WAS NOT ENOUGH.  Each line was only fifteen characters so the last word was split in two, emphasizing the first syllable, as if the sender had been exasperated, like the way Flora's mother had said the word: I have had E-nough of this! 

What the hell kind of message is that, she had thought.  Why should it matter if lunch was unfulfilling?

It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.  It mattered on that day, when she still believed him to be alive and she stood drinking in the smell of his cologne, mixed with something else, she had suddenly realized—a sickly sweet smell, like burnt matches

and spilled champagne. Weeks after his funeral it still mattered.  She sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the silent phone. 

MORE BOOKS BY KIM MCDOUGALL