#fridayflash: The Insurance Policy

I wrote this short for Laurita's Seaside Flash Fiction Contest over at Brain Droppings. It didn't win, so here's a ready-made #fridayflash for this week.

P.S. I loved her competition so much that I entered two stories - my other entry, 'Across the Ocean', won! You can check it out at Brain Droppings on Monday, 3 May.

(Image: William Murphy)

The Insurance Policy
Lily Mulholland

Song as sweet as his mother’s floated around Fletcher’s ears as he placed the tray on the musty passageway floor.

Oh I cannae tell ye of my name
Ya see to you we be all the same
Carried away o’er seven seas
Bringing good fortune to all but me

Half crouched in the dim, cramped space, he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the clear, high notes. Remembering Curly’s warning, he rose abruptly and fumbled for the fob secured to the sash at his waist, iron keys clinking in his hands.

The singing stopped as Fletcher inserted the key into the lock and turned the rest of the bunch over itself. Retrieving the tray, he pushed the door open with his foot and entered the chamber. Seated at the wooden table taking up most of the room was a woman so beautiful she forced the young breath from his body. Taking a brush to her hair, she did not speak to him as he placed her meal on the table, instead fixing his gaze with lapis eyes. He nodded, stepped backward and left the room quickly, locking the door on the way out.

Oh I waste not sweet talk or charming smiles
For I ken my fate for the next t’ousand miles
Ye’ll save me up till the storm sets in
And then over ye’ll toss me for one final swim

He leaned back against the heavy door, closing his eyes and allowing the honey voice to wend its way into the vulnerable, hidden parts of his soul. A male voice jerked him from his daydreams.

‘Tell me ye dinnae look ‘er in the eye, lad.’

‘N-no, Curly. I did exactly as you said.’

The chief cook peered at Fletcher through squinty eyes.

‘Och, good lad. Ye ken there be no place for a bird on this ship. She’ll bring us bad luck. Now git along wit ya. There’s work ta be done.’

Fletcher scooted back to the galley, busying himself with a tub full of dirty plates and pans. The action of scrubbing the dishes was hypnotising and he was soon fantasizing about the woman.

Oh I cannae tell ye of my name
Ya see to you we be all the same
Carried away o’er seven seas
Bringing good fortune to all but me

She was snatched at the last port. Curly would not tell Fletcher where the first woman had gone, but he found out from the messman she cast a spell upon the bosun to aid her escape. Under captain’s orders he had been flogged senseless for it.

Almost as soon as the new girl came aboard to sell her perfumes and handkerchiefs, the order to make sail was piped. She was dragged below by the master-at-arms, her bosom having been judged to be ample pacification for the savage seas they would encounter in rounding the Cape.

Fletcher prayed for a mighty storm.