July 8
Day two on this raft, and the only thing I can see on the horizon is a stack of smoke. And some raft it is! I barely have enough room to stretch my body out to sleep, but I think the space was designed for up to four people. What a laugh. But at least there’s some food here. I found a box of supplies—I’ll catalog them later and make sure I don’t lose anything, especially my head, ha!
My name is Hector Misenos, and this will be my diary for my time aboard this vessel. When I am rescued, I can publish it or something and become famous. Regardless, I need to pass the time somehow and keep myself sane. I’ll write in this logbook until the pencil tip is dull and then sharpen it with the knife I found in the supply kit. The raft is steadily drifting toward the stack of smoke anyway. I think I can also make out some sort of landmass in the distance. I will be fine. Some food and water rations are in the storage compartment, and I can use my windbreaker to prevent sunburn. My sweatpants will keep me warm enough at night.
I can start by relaying my life before this raft. You might think me crazy, though, but I can assure you I am perfectly sane. Keeping my head, remember? Writing is distracting and good fun.
I am a mortician and crematory operator back in Baltimore, Maryland—two jobs, two very different methods of operation, with two opposite results. Like I always say, it’s good to diversify and expand your horizons. So whether I’m halting the effects of time and decay through embalming or burning a corpse to char makes no difference to me. Work is work. I’ve met a lot of sad people waxing poetic about some poor dead sod or another and seen even more cadavers in my day, so I am no stranger to mortality. I do not fear my death, so this drifting in the middle of the Atlantic business is a walk in the metaphorical park. I’ve already gone through my supplies and found everything loaded aboard to be promising. Damn promising. And that stack of smoke? I’d guess it's coming from some island or another. That’s where the yacht must’ve been headed. Damned if I know; I was just there to party for a few days. I am hungry, but I’m not stupid. I’ll save my first meal of rations for tomorrow. I can wait another day.
July 9
After a couple of hours, I have read through and sorted out everything in the raft’s storage compartment. The contents are as follows—
• box of Seven OceanS Standard Emergency Rations (nine biscuits made up
of eighteen tablets)
• 32 oz of water
• knife with a cork handle
• rainwater collection system
• Safety and Survival: A Seafarers Guide to Life at Sea with attached
logbook
• first aid kit equipped with iodine solution, Band-Aids, gauze, suture kit, and
two aspirin
• standard no. 2 pencil
• five-pack of red hand flares
• waterproof torch
• whistle
• bailer sponge
• drogue
• compass
• rescue quoit with 40m rope
• hand pump
• playing cards
Oh, and you'll love this one. You see, most people are so stupid. They're on a boat and never think to grab a fishing pole! Well, I'm not most people. The pole was the first thing I picked up on the way to the raft. And it’s a good one, too. At least the asshole paid for a nice metal rod and not some cheap twiggy plastic bullshit. I used my knife to cut some eyelets out of my boot and tied them together with a piece of shoelace. The survival manual suggests using something shiny, and they make for a pretty good-looking lure, if I do say so myself. I’ll be eating fish in no time. Goddamn starving anyway. I’ll break open one of the biscuits before I put together the rain collector and have a few sips of water. Afterward, I’ll have a further look through the safety manual, maybe deploy the drogue and make sure I stay on course for that stack of smoke. The compass was a nice touch but ultimately a waste of space. The smoke and land are my destination. Who cares where north is. The playing cards will make for an excellent several hundred games of solitaire while I wait to be picked up or run ashore. Whatever comes first.
July 10
I got a fish, though it was a skimpy little guy. I spent all day sitting underneath my windbreaker, the sun beating down on my nylon-covered back. I had maybe two or three bites on the line before I got it. It was small, not big enough to save for another day. There are no matches or any kind of wood aboard the raft. So… I had to eat the fish raw. Killing the thing wasn’t hard at all since I have the knife. The serrated edge made it easy to descale and flay, too. There was quite a bit of blood for such a tiny morsel of meat, but I’ve seen my fair share of blood. My stomach turned at the flavor, and the nausea was almost unbearable, but nothing a game of cards couldn’t solve. I focused on the numbers and suits and the simple distraction they provided. I drank a bit more of the water, too. Though the fish is still rolling in my stomach, I cannot wait to catch another. My mouth waters at the thought. The slow taking apart of the fish was almost therapeutic. You clean and disinfect the body. You drain the blood. You remove the other fluids and waste. I know these steps intimately.
July 10 (continued)
Can’t sleep. I didn’t realize these nights on the ocean would be so cold. While my sweatpants do help, my windbreaker is not built for this frigid air. To get my mind off things, I pulled out the torch in the storage compartment to write. I flashed it out across the water to see if I could spot the smoke in the distance. What I saw was not smoke, but instead, numerous fins slicing through the waves like scalpels through flesh. I’m shutting the light off.
July 11
It's a slow day today. The lifeboat has continued its steady drift toward salvation.
I watched the billowing smoke for a long while, maybe even hours. It danced in the cool blue of the sky like an inky stain bleeding out at the edges. The smoke reminds me of the stacks back home, the ones that come out of the crematorium. Black and sooty with a peculiar, rancid smell. Not that I can smell the smoke in the distance. Though sometimes I think I catch a whiff of something. My mind is constantly returning to the crematorium and the persistent heat.
No one really likes morticians—or crematory operators, for that matter. We’re too strange or too macabre. Our conversation topics are morbid and disgusting, especially while at the dinner table. I find my work quite interesting, I’ll have you know. Someone has to do it, and those sorry sods never know what to do with themselves when they are in need of the hearse. Or the fire. I primarily work alone, but I don’t mind. I prefer to be by myself anyway. Besides, I’ve scared away any chance at romance, and the options at the mortuary aren’t…well…
Let’s just say the bodies aren’t the only things that look completely brain-dead.
Anyway, I played some more solitaire. I got through almost twenty games. Isn’t that something? And I tried fishing again. Nothing this time. It looks like it might rain tomorrow, so I checked on the collection system. Good to go. I still have some water left over from the rations, but a surplus is most welcome. God, I could use another fish.
July 12
Still no more fish, not even a single bite. I ate the second biscuit. I couldn’t resist any longer. They taste like shit, by the way, but it’s chock full of calories and doesn’t squirm—no mess to deal with after, either. I attempted to build an oar earlier but quickly realized I didn’t have the materials. I thought about using the hand pump, to what, propel myself? No, of course not. That wouldn't work. Anyway, what lifeboat doesn’t have an oar? It’s fine, not an issue. I’ve got a steady current heading toward the smoke plume.
I gathered the rainfall from the collection system and used the sponge to soak up what was left in the raft. My pants may be soaked, but now I have enough water to bring me through the next four days or so. To have the rain after all these days with the sun scorching my back, oh, it was fantastic. I had been getting in the water occasionally to cool down, but the rain had no brine to itch at my blistering skin. My face is really starting to peel, and my lips are cracked to hell. I’m sort of glad for the lack of a mirror and the fact that I can’t see my reflection in the undulating tide.
July 12 (continued)
Can’t sleep again. I’m writing next to the torchlight as my teeth continue to chatter. My hands are beginning to go numb. Why is it so damn cold tonight? I cannot wait to have the sun again, never mind the blisters. I would give anything for the warmth of my furnace back in Baltimore.
I’ve been thinking about my brother, Charlie. He always had one foot in the sea and was constantly trying to get me out on trips on his little sailboat. Maybe I should’ve gone. He could have shown me a thing or two about the seafaring life.
“Next time,” I’d always say.
“Hector, Hector, Hector.” He would wave his hands around as he spoke. I think he just wanted to look more convincing. “You must come aboard my Pearl. She’s a beauty, she is. You’ll love her. You will, you will.”
It was the same song and dance. Every. Single. Goddamn. Time.
“You’re still so young. You’re not even past your prime.”
Blah, blah, blah. He’d always repeat the same phrases like each conversation we’d had didn't exist. His wife was a draw, though. His beautiful wife. Maybe if she were the one inviting me, I’d come along. He didn’t deserve a woman like her, but somehow, she was always at his side.
“Hey, I’ll even let you steer this time.”
I never liked Charlie much.
July 13
I lost the fish. I LOST THE FUCKING FISH. It was a big one, too, almost the length of my arm. It was the most beautiful fish I’ve ever seen. Glittering scales, huge black eyes, so much meat. God, so much meat. I sat for hours waiting for that stupid fucking fish. I stared at the stack of smoke. I watched the clouds. I waited. When I finally got a bite, I cried out. I don’t think I’ve ever screamed before. I dragged the fish onto the raft, and in my excitement, I must’ve left it too close to the edge. I turned to grab my knife. My stupid fucking knife. When I looked back, the fish had flopped right back into the water. I can’t believe my mistake. It would have been delicious. I knew it. I wanted to tear it to shreds. I wanted to take it apart bit by bit. The next one, I will. I need to drink more water. I need to eat soon. If I don’t catch another fish in two days, I’ll eat my final biscuit.
Oh for a bunch of rich bastards, this is a pretty shit raft. Of course, all the money had to go to a stainless steel kitchen, a full-sized master bedroom, motion-activated lights, and a pool for the deck. A fucking pool on a yacht. How stupid is that? This raft must’ve been an afterthought, just something to fulfill ocean safety regulations at the barest minimum. There’s no tarp or covering, and my windbreaker doesn’t quite cut it like I thought it would. My face is burnt to a crisp. My lips feel like sandpaper. The air feels thick today. I smell something acrid. It could be the smoke. It doesn’t seem like it's getting closer, but I’m definitely floating towards the plumes. I must be close. I must be.
July 14
Sometimes I find myself wondering if the stack of smoke is even real. I’ve been thinking about it. But, of course, it is. My mind is sound. I’ve been drinking my water. I can last another week. I’ll reach that smoke. I wonder if something is roasting on the fire. Perhaps a nice, juicy steak or some burgers or fish filets. God, how I would love some fire to cook a fish. I could get lost in the fire, watching it burn the wood to fine ash. I miss the crematorium.
I don’t know why the yacht caught fire. I think it was an accident in the kitchen. Maybe one of the three world-class chefs left the gas stove on. Ha! Imagine that. I woke up to the screaming and scrambling of all the nepo babies and old money types. Their money couldn’t save them now, ha ha. When I got out of my stateroom, I beelined for the life raft. There was only one aboard, and I would not be caught dead as the one left behind. Just my luck anyway; everyone else’s rooms were close to the kitchen. There was an explosion, you see. I saw a woman crawling along the carpeted hallway floor. She was missing a leg, and her auburn hair was singed at the ends, any beauty she had burnt away by the flames. She stopped moving almost right as I spotted her. Another man stumbled out of his room, clutching his shoulder, sobbing hard.
“The raft. The raft,” he kept murmuring. “Hestia.” That’s when he noticed me.
I told him I didn’t know any Hestia and shoved past him to grab the fishing pole on the wall. He didn’t even think to take it? When I first boarded the vessel, I noticed the pole. It’s the same one my brother uses—a Shimano Vanford reel on a Johnny Morris Carbonlite rod. I had been annoyed at first, but in this moment, I was grateful. I snatched the thing and ran. I don’t really know what happened to everyone else. I did wait for a few minutes before I departed, I swear! But no one came out on deck. I did what I had to do. They were a useless bunch of rich bastards anyway.
Strangely enough, I was only on this ship as a thank-you for cremating their friend. This guy, Howard Whoever-the-Hell, thought I would be an interesting addition to their snooze of a cruise. How weird is that? Thank you for burning our closest friend to grey ashy dust. I think the dearly departed was some big CEO somewhere. There were quite a few people on that yacht. With just one raft. Like I said, useless fucking bastards. I would sue them if they weren’t at the bottom of the ocean.
It’s about to rain again. I’m going to prepare my supplies.
July 15
I got another fish. Slippery thing thought it could get away from me, but I got it. It tasted just as awful as the first. I saved the eyes for last. I think I heard somewhere that they’re a delicacy. I don’t know who said that cause the texture made me retch almost immediately. But I didn’t. I scarfed the slimy things down, and they tasted rancid. I played more cards. I tried to catch more fish. I still feel sick, but I just saw an albatross soaring above the raft. It was too high up to strike down, but I debated shooting it with one of the hand flares. After deploying the first, I decided not to try again. It would be a waste; I’m an abysmal shot, and my vision isn’t really focusing. I had thought there were two albatrosses before I realized I was just seeing double. Well, anyway, I’m pretty sure albatrosses are supposed to be some sort of good omen or something. I just caught a fish, so maybe there’s more to come. And I must be nearing that stack of smoke if the bird is here. It still looks just as far off, though.
July 15 (continued)
The waves are rocking a whole lot tonight; I’ve got a monster of a headache. My eyes have been straining to see the smoke in the dark, but I’ve been staring long enough that I can just start to make it out.
I wonder if my clients are worried about me. I had four booked at the mortuary and another thirty or so at the crematorium for this past week alone. This one lady, Adela— or was it Alana? Her husband died in a boating accident. No details. I wonder if it was the kind of boating accident I’m in right now. Ha, definitely not. It must’ve been a propeller or something. Maybe I’ll find his missing foot out here somewhere.
July 16
I hate that fucking bird. I finally unpackaged my final biscuit, and it swooped down to take it right out of my hand. I didn’t even know it was back until my biscuit was gone. I think I’ll call him Charlie. Some good omen. If it comes back, it’s dead meat. Dead fucking meat. I’ll skin it alive. I wish I had a fire.
July 17
A passenger plane flew overhead earlier today. I screamed. I fired three of my flares. I waved my arms for probably an hour. I blew into the whistle until my lungs couldn’t handle it anymore. No luck. I cried. I actually cried. With the amount of water I’m consuming, I hardly believed it possible. The hot tracks of tears felt good against my burned skin. I’m starving.
July 18
Still no fish, and the smoke is drifting ever closer. I think. The plumes seem to be rising higher into the sky. I’m close. I can feel it.
July 18 (continued)
Charlie was so pissed at me when I told him I would be on that yacht. It’s partly the reason I accepted the invitation—just to get the rise out of him. Years of begging and pleading and prodding for me to just hop aboard a fancy yacht, and the first chance I get? How dare I. If I were a betting man, I would say he was just jealous his friends wanted me along for the ride, and I agreed to it.
His wife was glaring at me from behind him. What? Can’t even face me directly? She won’t tell him; I know she won’t. She’s a coward, just like him. She rejected my second offer anyway.
The way he always clenches his fists at his sides when he’s angry, I know he wants to punch me. He never has, though. He wouldn’t dare. I’m the one who knows how to use a knife, after all. He
wouldn’t dare.
July 24?
It’s been a few days since I last wrote. I think the hunger is getting to me, but I’ve had something to eat since. Some seaweed was drifting by, and I immediately grabbed the quoit and rope and dove into the water to snatch it right where it floated. My legs are weak, and paddling back to the raft was enough to tire me out for the rest of the day, but I got it.
The leaves, if I can even call them that, were soggy and limp. The texture was rubbery and bitter on my tongue. There’s still a strange aftertaste in my mouth. I’ve saved some for the next two days, so I guess you could say I’ve got all I could ask for. Water, food (with the promise of more), and a destination. All I’m missing is some company. I’ll keep fishing, I think.
July 26
I saw a man. Well, more like a corpse. It floated by my raft, bobbing up and down like—I don’t know, like a corpse drifting atop the water. The body was black with bloat and rot and altogether quite unpleasant. But the smell? It just reminded me of home—the good ole’ mortuary. I must be dehydrated. Any corpses from the ship would be long gone by now. I ran out of water two days ago. I keep smacking my lips. If it doesn’t rain tomorrow, I have no chance. But it will. I’ll be fine. I’ve made it this far. The smoke is nearing.
July 27
It rained, just as I hoped. Only briefly, but it was enough to fill up my reserves. See. Like I said, I’ll be just fine.
Curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I pulled out my knife to have a look at my reflection. Did I mention before that I’ve been scared to look at my own reflection? Well, I had been right not to. Though the blade is thin, I was able to make out my face. I’m hardly a picture of perfect health. Sunken eyes, dark circles, skin a burning red—I look like a baked corpse.
July 31?
The smokestack is hypnotizing. I've been watching it for the past few days like it’s the most exhilarating thing in the world. It is, though. It is beautiful, the way it ebbs and flows.
Sometimes, it's a tar-black; other times, it seems more like a dark slate. The smog has gripped my mind and leaves me without breath. And the smell of the smoke comforts me. It carries me off into my sleep, where I dream. I dream of the fire. I dream of fish and gulls. Charlie. I’m so hungry. So damn hungry.
I tried to eat some boot leather. I just cut a piece off and gnawed at it. Eventually, I swallowed, but it didn’t stay down. I’ve been drooling since. My head aches something fierce. And I smell the bodies—the bodies burning amongst the smoke. It’s faint, but it's in the air. The smell is always drifting in the air.
July 34
I did what I had to do. Didn’t take long. After all, I’ve got the serrated knife. My knife. I swallowed the two aspirin and did the deed.
I cut it off.
I never planned to get married, and it's the most useless one of them all, anyway. I can live with nine! I could live with even less! I used the suture kit and gauze to fix it right up. Good as new. The trembling made my needlework a bit messy, but who even cares? I waited until it was dark, washed it with salt water. I thought it would add a little seasoning. Ha! I just pretended it was a chicken wing—the skinniest, boniest chicken wing. I almost tasted like one, too.
July?
I lost another fish. Days of no fish, and the first chance I get, I fuck it up. God. Oh god. I’m so
hungry.
August
I felt a pang of something earlier. Not in my bandaged hand, though it does hurt like hell. Oh god, does it hurt. I think the stub might be infected if the pus and swelling are anything to go by. But, Charlie—I think I screwed up. I think. Have I mentioned—Well, I must have by now—
I don’t feel like eating. I think I’ll watch the plumes in the distance all day. All night. Ebbing and flowing. And not think about him. Enough of him.
August
The man came back—the corpse. He stood at the other side of the raft and watched me. I was still. So still. His eyes were glazed a milky white as he looked back at me. It wasn’t until he caught fire that I screamed. His soiled loafers caught alight with a raging, angry flame, engulfing him almost instantly. He dove into the water and disappeared into the deep abyss below. I stared into the water after him. I looked up at the smoke. My salvation? No. My funeral. My hell. My burning, scorching death. He made the water look so enticing.
Cont…
Hestia was a beautiful woman. I mean, she was drop-dead gorgeous, excuse the phrase. Charlie knew it, too. That’s why he married her. I loved that woman, but she wouldn’t have me. Too strange. Too morbid. Too macabre. But Charlie? Oh, handsome, fun, charming fucking Charlie? Everyone loves him! But what about his younger brother, hm? Let’s all laugh at him. Let’s invite him on the yacht. Hear all his weird little jokes. He’s got a few screws loose, right? Something’s wrong upstairs. Well, who’s laughing now? WHO’S FUCKING LAUGHING NOW? You got your wish, Charlie. You finally got to sail with me. And how was it? Was your wife mad?
?
I am watching the smoke. The beautiful, glorious smoke. I can hear it now—the whispering and crackling of the fire. The clouds are circling. The sea is rippling and rolling all topsy turvy upsy downsy. Right around, around, and around. The fumes are filling the sky and snuffing out the blue. My freedom, my answer is right here. All around me. Stretching to the far beyond and back. Against the smoke. I can burn, or I can live. I will live. I can snuff out the itching fire engulfing my body. I have a knife. My knife. Clean and bleed the body. Preserve it forever. And water preserves. I will live forever.
Scout Baldwin is a New York-based animator and illustrator currently majoring in 2D Animation as a part of SVA's class of 2024. Her review of the David Cronenberg film A History of Violence is also published in this issue. Scout's artistic inclinations lie in character, background, and prop design; though her career is oriented toward working in the visual development field, she has always held a passion for reading and writing. There is something incredibly romantic and beautiful about the genre of horror, a sentiment that will continue to intrigue and entice her to keep engaging with new stories. Horror or romance? Why not both?