STORM DAMAGE

The boxes of her water-damaged possessions took up three-quarters of the hotel room.

Until the destruction caused by Hurricane Matthew was repaired this was her home. The restoration firm said they would gain access next week. Until then, all she could do was sit and wait.

The flowers of condolence sat on the table. They stared at her, a constant reminder.

Bill was missing presumed dead, a victim of the storm.

She prayed that the cement in the cellar had dried in time and held once the water receded.


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Copyright Dale Rogerson

Written as part of the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).

To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.

CASTAWAY

The sea was calm and a brilliant clear blue, mirrored by the cloudless sky above.

The storm had railed against the mysterious island for three weeks, the same surge that had capsized the cargo ship and driven them to the unknown land in the canoe life rafts.

‘You’re sure which direction?’ Gideon asked.

Cyrus shrugged. ‘We can’t stay here. Nothing but sand and rock and we haven’t seen another ship all the time we’ve been here.’

‘There must be a search party looking for the wreck and survivors. Why haven’t they picked up our emergency beacons?’

Cyrus shrugged again. He wanted to get away from the island. Something felt wrong. They had explored it all and found no sign of life but still he couldn’t shake the feeling they were not alone.

They shook hands before each solemnly getting into their meagre craft.

As they pulled away from the beach Cyrus looked back.

He saw the glint of sunlight reflected on glass. Standing on a rock he saw the man watching them leave through his telescope.


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My small tale was suggested by the classic novel ‘The Mysterious Island‘, by Jules Verne.

Written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The challenge is to write a flash fiction story in around 150 words, based on the weekly photo prompt. Thanks as always to the challenge host Priceless Joy. For more information visit HERE.

To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.

Y IS FOR YACHT

Sand sprinted as fast as his aching body would carry him along the dock. In the storm he kept losing sight of Moen until the dark was illuminated by a fresh lightning strike and he saw the toiling figure ahead. They ran clear of the hulking whaling ships, now it was private yachts and sailboats that were anchored in a marina, bobbing about on the surf caused by the strong wind.

Moen turned sharply and leapt onto one of the yachts. By the time Sand had drawn level with him he had untied it’s mooring and started the engine. He looked back at Sand as the gap of water between the dock and the yacht grew. Sand could only watch. The sea water would kill him in minutes if he jumped into it, and Sand wasn’t a great swimmer.

Bakke arrived, out of breath. ‘He’s gone,’ he puffed, bending over, hands on knees.

They watched the yacht motor through the harbour. Sand followed the direction it was travelling. ‘It’s never over,’ he said. He left Bakke standing gulping in air as he sprinted along the marina walkway. Continue reading “Y IS FOR YACHT”

W IS FOR WHALE

The night streets were deserted. The residents of Bergen knew better than to go outside when a major storm was blowing in from the Norwegian Sea.

Bakke managed to keep the car in sight. Dag Moen’s driving was reckless, hurtling through the streets as the driving rain reduced visibility to almost zero.

‘He’s heading to the docks,’ Bakke said, gripping the steering wheel. ‘There’s a spare jacket on the back seat.’

Sand discovered he was shivering, wearing only his vest that was soaked through. He reached round and put the jacket on.

After a further ten minutes the car in front jerked to a stop. As Bakke pulled up behind it they saw Dag Moen exit the car and sprint away.

‘Call for back up, then follow me,’ Sand shouted over his shoulder as he jumped out the car.

The cold rain lashed into his face. He saw Moen leap over a chain fence and scramble down the other side. Sand reached the fence and jumped onto it. He caught his jacket on barbed wire at the top of it. He managed to free himself and fell from the top. He landed on his back, grunting with pain. He staggered up and continued running.

The dock was filled with old whaling ships. They stood in rows, tethered to the crumbling concrete, their rusting hulks battered by the wind and rain. Sand could hear them groaning and straining on their moorings as he sprinted along beside them. Continue reading “W IS FOR WHALE”

V IS FOR VEST

‘Why don’t you put the gun down, Detective?’ Dag Moen said. ‘You can see I am not armed.’ He held his hands out, palms up to show he held nothing.

Sand looked round the room. There were plenty of sharp, dangerous tools surrounding them, but Moen appeared to be unarmed. He slowly bent down and placed his gun on the floor.

‘You’re soaked through. Take off those wet clothes.’

Sand had almost forgotten how wet he had become walking through the storm. Now he realised he was cold. ‘I’m okay, thanks.’

Anger flashed over Dag Moen’s face. ‘The jacket and sweater. Now.’

‘You think I’m wearing a wire?’

‘Prove me wrong.’

Sand paused for a moment, then stripped off his jacket and pulled his sweater off. He was left in his damp vest. ‘Satisfied? We’re alone. Why here?’ Sand asked.

‘The museum? This room? You don’t see it? I thought you were a smart man, Detective.’ Continue reading “V IS FOR VEST”