“Are you sure this will work?” Millie whined. For eight days every word from her lips was like this. Drew knew being stranded on a deserted island was not the idyllic honeymoon he promised, but who could predict a boat consuming fire?
“It is our best hope. In my nautics course at university I studied these exact currents. From here they flow back to the mainland.”
“But what if the glass bottle finds rocks?” Mille asked. “We’ll die here!”
“Darling there is only a 1% chance the current will direct this toward rocks,” Drew assured her.
Each week Allistair Forbes tosses us a bone in the form of a photo prompt and allots us roughly two hundred words to make a story. I enjoy this type of challenge immensely and celebrate my second week back in the fold.
There was countless hours studying mathematics, calculating physics answers, statics classes to make sure the structures were sound, all in all over a quarter million dollars worth of investment in the mind of the engineer assigned to build the suspended tram system.
From an engineering standpoint the system was perfectly sound. Everything worked exactly as designed, transporting the happy skiers up and down the mountain as they desired. That was until the flash ice storm of April 1, 2016. Even a Magna Cum Laude mechanical engineer could not design a system to deal with a five inch coating of ice on every surface. The complicating factor was that it came during the peak usage time of the day, stranding many visitors to the slopes.
Several calls to the engineer found only his voicemail, which meant that the problem rolled back to the director of operations, Sammy Cale. Sammy was a sixty-two year old career Marine sergeant in his eighth winter on McIntosh Peak. His no-nonsense style was evident as he tried to direct his team to deal with this crisis. The weather forecast offered no hope as the temperature wasn’t expected to rise above freezing for another twenty hours.
“What kind of Marine experience can you bring to this train wreck?” his second in command asked.
“Looks like an Air Force problem to me,” Sammy grinned as he chomped down on his cigar.
Carlie held her breath, willing Braden to stop. To cut those mean and hateful words out of his mouth that seemed to spew uncontrolled in her direction. They were supposed to be the exception, the couple that weathered all storms, the perfect match. At least that is what Facebook told her every time she used one of those online match maker quizzes. She believed them, not necessarily due to their scientific nature, but because they agreed with what she felt in her heart.
Braden was the handsomest boy in school. He treated her like she thought a girl was supposed ot be treated, with respect and dignity, not like an attachment or possession. She squeezed her eyes shut wanting all this to be just a troubling dream, like the ones she faced on many nights in her fractured home. The endless shouting from one end of her home to the other as her parent’s marriage slowly and steadily crumbled infected her usually happy heart such that peaceful, sleep filled nights were now a strange phenomenon.
She could sense his words had stopped, so she cracked her eyelids a bit. But there was no one there. She looked in all directions, but Braden seemed to have been enveloped into the ether. Was their fight real or had she imagined it? She had to know, so she ran toward the cafeteria at the high school, frantically looking for him. She ignored a set of three friends that greeted her as she ran past, a wild look in her eyes. She had to find Braden, had to know if he had said those words.
Her answer came like a linebacker flattening a quarterback. When she entered the main hall to the upstairs foyer she found Braden in a lip lock with Caden Smart, a new transfer student from California. This surfer girl, with her long tan legs and sun-bleached hair had taken her Braden away.
Letters to Euturpe is a weekly blog invitational hosted by tuckedintoacorner. In this weekly event, you’ll be prompted to write poetry or a piece of flash fiction inspired by a song lyric (or in some cases the full song).
Alistair Forbes hosts a once weekly photo fiction writing event called appropriately enough Sunday Photo Fiction. The idea is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide. I have not been a part of this for some time and missed it, so I am back!
Sheila had delusions of grandeur about her long time hobby of collecting dolls. It had been six months since she found the newspaper clipping about Old Mrs. Crenshaw and how her lifetime collection of dolls had been sold through Sotheby’s for three million dollars. Three million dollars would set her for life. The worn newspaper clipping she fingered every single day was beginning to fade, but she strained really hard to make out the photo of Mrs. Crenshaw’s collection. It looked like she had hundreds of dolls, but so did Sheila.
She could also make out a shiny gold and glass display case the dolls had been kept in and figured that is what made the difference. She remembered seeing something like it at the local trash dump on one of her walks to town over the weekend. A can or two of spray paint should shape it up. But what about the glass? Where could she find some glass to fill the holes? A smile crept on her lips as she looked at the window cleaner at the bakery who smiled as he put a shine on the large windows between her and shelves of steaming bread.
Monday is the first opportunity each week to get your fiction writing fix. Barbara Beacham gives us a photo and first line to a 200 word fiction masterpiece. I hope you enjoy mine.
I watched the vulture looking at me hungrily as I lay on the ground bleeding and injured. I could see him and he could see me. He can wait, he knows I cannot get away. The storm is over now, the sky clear. I think the power stayed on after I climbed the pole to fix the main line. I guess Harley was right, my boot spikes were too worn to wear in the hurricane. But I knew I could get the line fixed in time to save the town.
I still have hope. I am sure the rescue and clean up crews will arrive soon. If I can just hold out until they do. I never stop and just admire the blue sky. I need to do that more, if….
Baraba Beacham gives us a photo prompt and first sentence of a fiction prompt on Mondays. You can join us here.
Not knowing what to expect, he made his way into the dark of the forest. He was too old for initiation, wasn’t he? Yes, he wanted to finally gt a chance to do this extreme ropes and zip line course, but the guys of Theta Kappa Phi were determined he had to do this first. Starting a second degree at 34 had been the wife’s idea. He knew she was right, his two year degree wasn’t generating enough income. But really, was this necessary?
He turned to look at the group of eighteen, nineteen and twenty year olds who were loving every minute of this. He fully expected some others to be waiting in the woods. What they didn’t know was he was an excellent woodsmen and had special forces training. This was going to sour on them very quickly. He wouldn’t hurt them, just scare the daylights out of them.
Here we go with Friday Fictioneers again, the best photo fiction prompt on the planet, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I took a break from the path I have been on to give the romantic story a whirl.
copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
She didn’t want to leave. They said this was forever. She said it was love, so did he. But here she was a suitcase in one hand and her keys in another. She hoped he would chase her into the rain, no not hoped, she counted on it.
She paused at the side of the car, listening for his familiar call, but there was only silence. Her tears were washed away by the wind and rains. Her heart ached with the reality of the moment.
Inside the apartment he was lying on the sofa, asleep and unaware of her decision.
The Grammar Ghoul Press offers two prompts each week to satisfy your fiction writing urge. One is a micro-story prompt offering multiples of 13 words, i.e. 13 in week one, 26 in week two and so on but always less than 53 words. The other is a 750 word offering known as the Mutant 750. I usually don’t get it together in time to include with the others. The prompt for The Shapeshifting 13 Mico-fiction Writing Challenge begins at noon on Friday and is open until 8:00 p.m. Sunday. Their is a grid you can add your offering to and there is a 24 hour reading and voting period by anyone who happens by.
So enough with the offical words, here is my interpretation of the prompt, which is the photo that follows along.
“The Six Million Dollar Cow” by Anthony Wolff
Trading with aliens was new, but money was money and Farmer Jones made a killing. How the aliens ate the heifer was their business, not his.