NYCM Prompts:
Genre: Open | Location: a lifeboat | Object: False teeth
[Final Round: did not place]
Synopsis: In a world controlled by the Sanctified, those whom they deem Corrupt are exiled to ramshackle platforms anchored far out to sea. Escape is believed to be impossible – but is it?
We are too desperate to panic. Yet the swirling undercurrent is there, adding strain to the hushed voices, the stiffness of postures, the tightening of jaws. We wait, obscured by the sea fog; only the familiar creak and groan of these sea platforms, cobbled together with whatever flotsam drifts by, can be heard.
The steady chug of the engine rolls through the fog, announcing the approach of the scheduled six-weekly lifeboat. In the Before, lifeboats were used to rescue those in distress on the sea. Yet with the land controlled by the Sanctified, those same boats have become a cruel parody of their former purpose. They still visit those in distress, but not to rescue. Instead, they bring minimal supplies, permitting us – the Corrupt, we are called – some meagre chance of survival, but never ending our exile by returning us to land.
Except for now.
Through the fog, the bright orange of the lifeboat slips into view. An eerie stillness falls over the platform. On the lifeboat, blurred silhouettes take position on the side benches, keeping a wary watch. The Sanctified use open lifeboats instead of ships for supply runs: small enough to monitor all sides, with minimal navigation equipment, and little protection from the elements. To them, the lifeboats are not worth capturing. To us, they are our only chance of escape.
Hidden behind a lopsided tent of worn sailcloth, I glance to my right. Elior, the most recent addition to our exiled community, meets my eye. He arrived on the last scheduled supply run, roughly shoved out of the lifeboat, as a newly declared Corrupt. None of us asked why. The Sanctified never give a reason. Life before this existence is simply known as the Before. Everything else, the After.
“Ready?” I murmur.
Elior nods, sucking on his pride and joy: a set of false teeth. They are the last of his possessions from the Before. He says they once fit perfectly, but now, in the After, they have become loose and uncomfortable. Yet he refuses to part with them.
“A reminder of what was and what can be again, Tymon,” has always been his explanation. We had all but given up on returning to land before Elior arrived. His burning hope rekindled the dying ember of ours. Without it, this final stand would not exist.
“Remember,” he whispers, “we need the lifeboat intact to get back to land.”
“I’ve given the order.” I have been here the longest. Survival grants its own authority.
The Sanctified crew make clipped demands for someone to show themselves. Elior stands, walking to the edge of the platform. Some of the Sanctified recognise him and guffaw. The thrum of the engines slow while the paltry supplies are flung from the lifeboat. Most reach the platform; others drop into the sea. The Sanctified don’t care.
Anticipation courses through me. Once the last supply is thrown and the Sanctified make ready for the return journey, that is the moment when Elior must act…
And he does.
With a galvanising cry, he leaps from the platform onto the lifeboat, tackling the nearest Sanctified. Their contempt disintegrates into panic. I surge forward, leading five other Corrupt. Not enough to capsize, but enough to overwhelm.
The lifeboat rocks as Sanctified and Corrupt battle for their lives. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a Sanctified’s fist connecting with Elior’s jaw. His false teeth fly from his mouth, clattering against the footings of the lifeboat. Within a moment, they are trampled beneath heavy boots. Elior lets out a keening cry, piercing and pitiful, and the fight washes out of him. He drops to his knees, groping under the thwarts for the broken pieces, numb to everything else.
The Sanctified who punched him advances, now raining blows over his head. Torn between searching and defending himself, Elior contorts his arms upwards in a grotesque attempt to deflect the unrelenting strikes, small and scared. But it’s too late. One vicious strike is all it takes and he goes limp.
“Elior!” I shout.
The Sanctified rounds on me. But before they can grab me, I fall backward over the side of the lifeboat, timing the gulp of air so that my mouth snaps shut only a moment before the water closes over my face.
Salt stings my eyes but it is so familiar now. Twisting, I bring my legs together and kick, angling under the keel of the lifeboat. Resurfacing on the opposite side, I haul myself up using the looped lifelines along the sides, launching a surprise attack against my would-be assailant. The Sanctified topples into the sea with a shriek.
All around the lifeboat, the sea begins to churn. Monstrous shadows flit through the water, occasionally breaking the surface in large swathes of teeth and fins, attracted by the commotion. The other Corrupt realise what is about to happen. The lifeboat is no longer a haven. They leap again but this time for the safety of the platform.
Panting, I crouch by Elior, shaking his shoulder. “Get up!” His head lolls to one side, his glassy stare no longer seeing either the Before or the After. Dead. I snatch my hand back in horror.
Shouts of alarm ring out from the other Corrupt. The lifeboat rolls and heaves atop the roiling waves as a feeding frenzy begins to take hold from below.
Yet I linger a moment longer. “It’s over,” I say softly. To Elior, to myself, to all the future Corrupt. The Sanctified will never allow this to happen again. Our only chance is lost.
“Tymon!” They are frantic now; their voices barely audible over the din. The crack of splintering wood, the squeal of twisting metal, the ominous thuds from below. Elior may have lived among the Corrupt, but he was never really one of us. That is not true of me.
I let loose a defiant yell as I make my own final leap. From the Before and into the After.
C.A. Raine 