Something a little different today. I got inspired by this render, and wrote a short story that I’m quite proud of. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
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Siobhan knew she was fucked the moment they told her she was to go ashore with the landing party.
‘You’re the only one of the crew petite enough to fit in that cave, my darling sister,’ Captain Padrig advertised, ‘The only one who can deliver unto us the fortune we deserve, the fortune we’ve searched so long for.’ Padrig’s attempt at a smile exhibited tooth decay and horrid rum breath.
The story was shite. There was no treasure chest in that cave. They weren’t even at the right island. Siobhan knew as much; she had secretly snuck into the Gaothlach’s map room while the crew slept, straining her eyes by candlelight to study the treasure map, memorizing every bit of information offered by the flimsy sheet of parchment. She had read all the maps, all the compass headings, everything. She knew exactly where they were, and where they weren’t.
‘I’ll leave you to prepare for your quest,’ Padrig sneered, leaving her alone in her cabin, save for the sentry at the door in the form of Luther; the ship’s navigation officer.
Siobhan figured her time was short. She had overheard Padrig and some of the crew conspiring to dispose of her on several occasions. She was beloved by many of the crew, especially Luther, but she was also entitled (by order of the Clan) to half the value of the riches they were trying to collect. She knew full well that with her out of the picture many of the crew would return home with heavy hearts, but even heavier pockets.
Padrig loathed his younger half sister; her entitlement, her report with his crew… HIS crew. He had been scheming all along to keep his half of the gold, rubies and diamonds they sought, and do away with ‘Princess Pest’ so he could dole out her share to retain favour with his fellow sailors.
Siobhan was aware the only one who knew the maps as well as her was Luther. The rest of the crew were illiterate and uneducated. She also knew that he could never keep his eyes off Siobhan’s enticing figure. He had spent many nights fantasizing in the map room about her delicate features and sensual curves.
Siobhan began to remove her long skirt in her quarters as Luther pretended not to notice. ‘No sense in wearing such cumbersome clothing in a wee cave now is there, Luther?’ she inquired.
‘Nay, Miss’ he gulped, ogling Siobhan’s shapely legs from the corners of his lustful eyes.
‘If I only had a few items from the map room, I’d be more comfortable in that dark, scary cave.’ she lamented, ‘Oh Luther, I’d do anything to get in the map room.’
‘Aye Miss, but I cannot…’ Luther started to protest.
‘Anything,’ she reiterated, slowly hiking up her petticoat, revealing her supple, silky thighs to the nervous navigator.
Luther swallowed, beads of sweat appearing on his brow. He tried to say something but only stood paralyzed with his mouth agape…
Half a dozen burly seamen loaded themselves into the oar-driven pinnace, the last sailor carefully helping Miss Siobhan down the netting into the shore-bound jolly boat.
As the landing party headed for the nearby tropical island Siobhan’s eyes met for perhaps the last time those of Captain Padrig’s, who was staring at her stoically from the bow of the mighty Gaothlach. She turned away, wanting to spend her final moments embracing inner peace in silent meditation.
At the shore, the crew pulled the small craft onto a shallow sand bar. One of the muscle bound mariners lifted Siobhan out of the boat, placing her gently on the soft, sandy beach.
‘The cave is just there in the trees, but a few paces beyond the fallen palms, Miss,’ one of the crewmen pointed to a pair of downed trees along the shoreline. Siobhan glared scoldingly at the sailors. None of them returned a gaze. They were shackled with guilt, and they knew she could sense it.
Siobhan took a slow, deep breath before embarking on her final steps. She entered the small, sandy inlet past the downed palms, wondering how they would do it. She felt her demise was imminent and braced for the sound of musket fire, or the feeling of a hard steel rapier against her soft neck.
Siobhan’s tense anticipation turned into frightful awareness at the moment her legs began to sink into the quicksand that awaited her at the edge of the jungle. It seemed her death sentence would not be violent or painful, but suffocating and slow… agonizingly slow.
She gasped and turned her head to the six sailors who had already started back, shamefully in their dinghy, heads bowed as if attending a funeral pyre. They couldn’t bare to watch their lovely lady being swallowed by the sand.
There was no use in struggling, the quicksand would take her regardless, Siobhan thought as her legs slipped into the soupy silt. Closing her eyes, she returned to her meditative state as the swampy sand slurped in her thighs and licked at her petticoat. She silently forgave her deceivers, and prayed for them as the horrible, creeping quicksand slowly consumed her hips, hungrily sucking her down to her corset. In a few moments, liquid sand was pouring in over her heaving breasts. Siobhan took a series of slow, deep breaths preparing for her doom, feeling quicksand crawling up the smooth nave of her neck, her hair fanning out over the wet sand. Afraid, but at peace, Siobhan awaited her deliverance.
Standing on the deck of the Gaothlach, Captain Padrig lowered his sight glass and turned away from the beach. He had seen enough. It was one thing to watch his sister sinking in quicksand, but another to watch her horrific final moments. The crew on deck were silent, looking solemn and sorrowful with their heads bowed.
‘Come on, men! Such gloom on the faces of wealthy gentlemen!’ pepped Padrig, unsuccessfully.
The perturbed captain spat, ‘to hell with you lot, I’ve a treasure to find!’ Padrig marched triumphantly toward the ship’s map room.
Captain Padrig knew he was fucked the moment he opened the map room door. Laying on the floor, dead as a doornail in a pool of crimson was Luther; his trousers pulled down to his ankles; the hilt of a small dagger protruding from his right eye socket.
The most gut-wrenching thing Padrig would witness that day was not his still warm but quite dead navigator, nor was it his sweet sister being devoured by the terrible quicksand; it was the vacant space on the large, wooden map room table where once stationed a very important, flimsy sheet of parchment.
Deireadh
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