Genre Writer

Or how I learned not to be caught up in labels

I am a writer. I like to write. Short form, long form, things in between. I write them all with equal aplomb. But someone asked me what genre I write in. I was taken aback. Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Humor, combinations of these. I promise not to nail anything to your dining room table if you label me one of these.

And then there is whatever the following is.

I hope it gives you some thoughts.

The Deep, Dark Sea

A small collection of beer mugs and shot glasses in front of Jonathan were testament to his time in the Jacksonville waterfront bar. He bent over the counter, elbows on the top, chin in the palm of one hand, the other placed on top of his wallet, departure momentarily delayed.

A woman stood next to him, her short red dress brilliant against the dim light of the rest of the space. Her blonde hair was done up and her strappy high heels matched the tiny purse that she fumbled with. She was in marked contrast to the cinderblock walls with their peeling and bubbling sea foam paint colored now by the grime of ages. A cocktail sat on scraped and dinged wooden counter in front of her. The bartender stared at her, arms crossed.

"I know it's here somewhere."

Jonathan wanted to go. He shipped out early the next morning and couldn't afford to miss the boat. He contemplated the woman and her problem, opened his wallet and took out a a couple of fins. He pushed them across the bar toward the woman.

The woman managed to look surprised and coyly smiled at him. "Thank you so much!" She pulled out a bar stool and sat next to him.

Jonathan smiled back. He couldn't resist the siren song. If he played his cards right, he might not be lonely tonight.

* * *

Jonathan made it to the ship on time. Barely. The gangplank was still down and that's all that matter, to him.

The Captain had a different opinion. He summoned Jonathan to his cabin. Close attention to detail was the order of the day. Tardiness would not be tolerated in any regard.

Jonathan scarcely paid attention. On the desk, next to the captain's pristine white hat, was an ornate, gold frame containing a picture of the captain kissing a woman. The handwriting on it proclaimed love to the dearest husband. His heart pounded and he felt lightheaded as he tried to steady his breathing. The picture in the frame was the captain and the young woman from last night, locked in a kiss. He escaped the cabin without a mishap and vowed to do his work as best as possible to not attract attention.

When the freighter made port in England, he stayed onboard not wanting to chance a drunken moment of misfortune and loose tongue. The captain even acknowledged his dedication when he came back onboard two days later. Jonathan's anxiety slowly subsided as the trip wore on and more ports were reached, cargo traded and less time remained. With any luck, he might even get another cruise before the winter storms hit the North Atlantic. All that remained was the return leg.

A couple of days out from the last port, Jonathan heard the Captain stormed out of the radio room, cursing all the way to his cabin. Jonathan felt an icy pit form in bottom of his stomach..

He only had a few days left. He would stay out of view of the Old Man. A quick check of the duty roster in the morning showed he was assigned rust duty on the hull.

Jonathan gritted his teeth while he pulled on his orange survival suit. This wasn't such a bad gig, scraping the hull and applying paint to the creaking rustbucket of a tramp freighter they were on. There were worse jobs, he told himself.

At least it was still calm, for the North Atlantic. The swells were running a good ten to fifteen feet under the scudding clouds. And the water was always icy.

He grabbed his can of Rust-o-leum, brush and scrapper and went to the bow of the ship. Partly, it was a good a place as any to start, partly, it got him as far from the wrath of the captain as possible.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Soon, he was sitting on a board, hanging from a painter that his crewmates helped lower. He began the laborious task of scraping the old, bubbled up coating and attacking the offending rust underneath. Stowing his scraper on his belt, he applied generous amounts of the protective paint that hung beneath the plank he sat on. An occasional yell to the forecastle brought one of his shipmates in due time to the side and they helped drag the rope over to the next patch.

Finishing a particularly stubborn area, he yelled for assistance but time stretched without a response. Resentment and nausea grew in the pit of his stomach as he hung over the side while the ship bobbed up and down on the waves. He yelled again. Still no face appeared. In frustration, he kicked the hull.

His guts rapidly changed from queasiness to a fluttering, light feeling and surprise. He looked down in time to see the foaming, grey sea rushing up to meet him.

He hit the water hard. It knocked the breath out of him and it took all his willpower not to inhale while submerged. Forcing his legs to scissor away from the ship, he avoided getting trapped under the hull. The buoyancy of his suit helped to bring him up and he broke the surface like a cork. He took a deep breath.

The ship's bulk swam by, the stern wake picking him up and pushing him away. His yells for help were lost in the cacophony of the rise and fall of the sea water turned to foam by the thudding screw. Any chance to be heard by the crew on deck dwindled while the ship continued to move away from him. A lone figure, topped in white, looked over the side.

The realization of what he just saw left him mute. The distance between him and the ship continued to grow. Now at the crest of a wave, he looked out at the receding vessel, its superstructure barely visible now. With them both increasingly left at the bottom of different trenches, the freighter all but disappeared from view.

Motivated by anger, he swam after the vanishing hope but soon grew exhausted from fighting the rolling sea. He just couldn't continue. Reason fled completely. In the water, his screams were lost in the emptiness. An uncaring wavelet slapped his face, giving him mouthful of seawater as a reward. Coughing and sputtering, he spit out the cold brine. Ice formed in his gut to match the chill seeping in from his hands. He pulled his attached gloves on. The ship was gone.

Calm spread as he took a deep breath to assess his situation.

In his suit, he could last nineteen, maybe twenty hours in the drink. He was still in the shipping lanes, as far as he could tell. If he could keep his head, he might get rescued. Maybe. At least one person damn well knew where he was. He just hoped that it was more than one. Belief that an entire ship wouldn't simply consign him to death buoyed his thoughts. One of his mates was bound to act and send out a search and rescue call for him.

Why hasn't anyone noticed that I'm gone?

A darker thought followed. Maybe they did know and just didn't care. Seeing that their bonuses depended on the word of the Captain, nobody might be looking for him too hard. Anxiety rose from the depths and started to overwhelm him.

Deep, calming breaths.

He couldn't allow himself to panic. Easing himself onto his back, he rode the swells like a piece of flotsam. The clouds fled across the sky. It had the hallmarks of a front moving in, he thought. Soon the sun, hidden as a bright patch behind the clouds, would be heading down. Peace came unbidden when he accepted that he was left behind.

Some hours later, a brief rain visited him as the front came through. The ocean waves became choppy and beat upon him. Jonathan was worn out from the battering. He tried to stay on top as much as possible, his mouth open wide, to capture as much fresh water as he could to slake his growing thirst. The sea became almost flat with the passing of the squall line. The sun made an appearance between the clouds and the sea. Red dotted the sky, the waves sparkled golden, and the shining disk sank below the horizon. Darkness spread across the tableau as though a brush dipped in ink swiped across the world.

Jonathan began to despair anew. No other vessel had appeared the whole time. He wondered if the currents had swept him out of the lanes. His spirits further fell when he realized there was nothing he could do.

The night deepened. The clouds cleared. A thin sliver of a waxing moon was travelling toward the horizon. In a few hours darkness, interrupted only by starlight, would settle around him. Jonathan felt a shiver go up his spine. He couldn't figure out if it was from the increasing chill he felt or if it was from the awareness of how alone he was, stranded in the middle of the cold Atlantic.

Near the horizon he saw a growing, ghostly glint over the dark waters. A mist was rising. He sighed inward.

Of course.

He wondered what sea god he had offended.

In a short time, the fog came for him. Its smothering, cold embrace caressed his face with unseemly familiarity.

The moon went down and left him in total darkness. Afraid that a ship would hit him, he struggled to stay awake. Fatigue dragged at his limbs while he strained to hear any sound that would indicate an approaching vessel. But all his efforts were for naught. Fighting to keep his eyes wide, the span of how long they were open versus how long they were closed tipped in the closed direction.

He woke with a start. Something had bumped into him. Instantly panicking, he thrashed in the complete darkness.

Wait, wait, wait.

He regained his composure and went vertical. The thick pea soup left him floating in a void. No sign of what was nosing him was evident.

A sudden pressure grasped the outer part of his left thigh. He felt sharp teeth pierce his skin, felt them entering the strands of his muscle. He cried out in pain. Whatever gripped him started to dive down into the thalassic depths. Jonathan beat on whatever held his leg with his left fist to no avail. The pressure grew in his ears. His chest felt like it was about to collapse. His right hand brushed against his waist. It felt something solid there. The scraper! He still had it on him. He worked it loose and blindly drove the sharp end hard into the midst of the pain on his leg.

The maw released him. Frantically kicking his legs, he drove upwards. His lungs were on fire.

Just a little further!

He was fighting a battle he would soon lose. He had to draw a breath.

NO!

No!

I can't!

He broke the surface. The cool, misty air tasted delicious. He collapsed onto his back, letting the suit keep him up.

He carefully put the scraper back on his belt. Never had he been so glad to have that tool. He removed the glove on his hand nearest the afflicted thigh. Gingerly, he probed the damage with his bare hand. A searing semicircle of pain along the outer part of his thigh met his fingertips as the salt water worked its way into the wounds. That was bad but at least he didn't seem to be missing anything. The tough fabric of the suit must have protected him. The really bad news was that the water around his wound was warm. He was bleeding out but how quickly, he couldn't tell in the pitch black. He pushed hard against the wound, trying to use pressure to staunch the blood.

Jonathan's arm tired. He felt he must have slowed the bleeding as he was still alive. Stars filtered into his view as the miasma dispersed and soon, the Milky Way spanned the heavens. Lying on his back with the celestial lights as his companions, he felt his feeble spark of life, indeed, all the feeble sparks of humanity, floating like him, alone, on an infinite black sea.

His thoughts ascended, higher and higher, reaching for those stars and what people, what things there might be watching him bob on the ocean, everyone, regardless of location, removed from him with a gulf wider than any distance.

A deep melancholy filled him. We are all the same, alone, stumbling toward companionship, never quite reaching the other. The last of the adrenaline wore off and he passed out under the scintillating points.

Voices roused him out of his stupor. Sibilant sounds, tones that sounded almost human at the edge of comprehension called in the night. Alarmed, he brought his legs under and looked out over his demesne.

Dark, sinuous shapes distorted the surface of the water around him. He could just make out what looked like tentacles and fins in the dim starlight.

Come, come to us!

"No!" he shouted back in the night.

Something entangled his arm. He screamed in fright. He could feel a tentacle wrap around his legs. His heart pounded. He tore at his scraper, slashed at the denizens of the deep with it.

A hissing laughter greeted his efforts. A slimy fin dragged across his face. He dropped the scraper and wrestled the appendage. The limb felt light, stranded. almost feathery. His hands probed the length of it. Fins were regularly attached to it, spread out along its length. He slowed in his struggle against it. Something wasn't right. It dawned on him who his assailant was. Seaweed. He was in a patch of Sargasso. A need to laugh built in him. Peals of choking mirth echoed across the still, deep waters. It went on for a long time, taking on rasping, manic edge it as it continued.

His laughter abruptly stopped when he heard another voice over a loud speaker barking out commands. He turned around in the water, not quite sure if he believed. A short distance away, a dark hulk of a container vessel with lights blazing made way. He yelled at them at the top of his lungs. He tried to swim toward them, trying to get their attention somehow.

But the ship placidly sailed away.

Jonathan stared after it and watched it slowly shrink in the dark.

His teeth started chattering as he lay on his back.

It won't be long now. I could give up and turn over, finish it.

He drifted in and out of awareness, his dreams taking him to the shores of his memories where he dwelled longer and longer.

* * *

The dawn broke upon the ocean, coloring the day. The fishermen had been already working for a number of hours when one of the crew spotted something adrift in the ocean.

"Captain, there's something out there!" He pointed to port where a brightly colored shape contrasted with the slate waters. It rode up and down on the waves.

"Coming about, prepare the hook!"

"Aye-aye, sir."

The boat made way to the orange suited figure. Its stiff form floated face up, on the deep, dark sea.