Flotsam on the drift – by Lonnie Dalton
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLYFROM THE UTAS ‘LOVED STORIES’ PROJECT
2025’s UTAS third-year creative writing students were challenged not to ‘write what you know’ but to ‘write what you love’. What they produced were stories that range from horror to rom com, lyrical writing to memoir, comedy to absurdism, social commentary to fantasy. We’ve featured excerpts from seven stories on Island Online: read all the excerpts here.
Upon the frothing current rode splintered ships, barnacled barrels, and one wayward soul.
Crengston lounged on his makeshift raft, whistling out of tune. To be on the drift was a marvellous thing – to be truly detached, basking in nothingness. These waters were strange, but peaceful. The brown, fragrant sea gave the sensation of spiralling down, down towards some unseen centre.
Yes, Crengston was immersed in his drifting to the point of being unable to recall his departure. But the endlessness of it all was beginning to grate away at him, so naturally he was overjoyed when out of the waves there appeared a castle, all dark, dusty, and elegant.
Crengston bundled over to the side of his vessel, making himself up quick-smart. The churning water was a lousy mirror, but he made do. He tamed his vicious spikes of hair beneath his cap, fixed the collar of his diamond-patterned blazer, and batted salt from the creases in his sleeves.
Crengston lingered with his reflection. He leaned forward, nose almost touching the water, transfixed. For what glimmered in the current was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was sleek and gelatinous. Murky brown like the water, speckled darker at one end, floating along merrily like a warped tadpole. And it was squeaking to him in a voice too quiet to be heard by the ear. Softer than a whisper, doubly penetrating, bouncing into the space behind his eyes.
On the drift no more, my chap! Come ashore, and see what’s in store!
Crengston narrowed his eyes at the strange words, at the buzz they sent across his skin. With a decisive swoop of the arm, he grabbed the thing and swallowed it in one gulp.
Crengston’s raft arrived upon the white sands skirting the castle’s firmament. Suddenly, there were people, even shorter than him, with broad-brimmed hats shadowing their features. There was an urgency in their step as they came, hard boots squeaking in the sand.
Crengston hastily corrected his affectation. He strode forth nobly and bowed deeply, arm thrown behind him. ‘Good day! Crengston at your service. I’ve come upon the tide.’
No reply. The crowd came closer. Crengston hopped back onto one foot, rolling his fists in front of his face. ‘Please don’t do me harm! I know arts of the martial sort, mind.’
But they brushed right past him. They started poking at the barrels that had washed up, cracking open the lids, sniffing hard with hidden noses: reaching a verdict. Some barrels were rattled up the sand into great carts, but most were smashed to bits with alarmingly large mallets (this was done with much cheering and whooping).
Crengston idled in his bewilderment. Abruptly, he clapped his hands, moving to help with the strange ritual. Trying to help, at any rate. The strange folk worked doubly quick as him, and all he managed to do was elicit curious stares in his uselessness.
Crengston kicked rocks as he trudged up into the castle, muttering to himself, ‘Way to cock it up quick-smart, hey.’ He hung his head so insistently that he failed to notice the magnificence around him.
There were soaring buttresses, wrapped in vines, interlocking with the castle proper. Plummeting staircases snaked down into endless streets below. And, in every nook, smashed together, teetering atop one another like old books, were cafes. Countless cafes, of every personality and persuasion.
It was the roasted scent lining the air that made Crengston finally raise his head. Breath faltering, he wheeled about jerkily to take it all in. He rejoiced, clicking his heels in a little jig. ‘Coffee! Of course, that’s why I’m here: to drink a coffee!’ He threw his head back with a grin and started forward.
That’s when the wooden cane sprouted from the alleyway and whisked him into darkness.
There was a rush of shadow as Crengston was wrought into the alley, cold stone blaring all around, the scent of burnt coffee dripping from the cracked pipes. He tumbled to his feet, ready to condemn his abduction.
But the person who emerged from the shadow was so strange and so marvellous that Crengston held his tongue.
This was a curious figure. No flesh, no bones. He was made of something else, something transparent and murky, as if the eternal brown of the sea had been moulded into a human silhouette. The only features of note were a battered top hat and the bright, broad grin beneath it.
The figure lowered his hat from his head in greeting. Crengston read the letters inside the brim: DOLCE DREGMEISTRE.
Crengston returned the courtesy. ‘Crengston. Pleasure. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a good cup around here, would you?’
Dolce said nothing. He balanced his top hat on his vague protrusion of a nose. Crengston prodded, ‘What are you doing there, Dolce?’
Dolce snatched the hat up with a flourish, then brought it down hard over Crengston’s empty hands. Crengston blinked – in his hands were a cup and saucer where none had been before. The cup, however, was empty. ▼
Image: Eileen Byrne - Unsplash
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