Use the photograph above as the inspiration for your flash fiction story. Write whatever comes to mind (no sexual, political, or religious stories, jokes, or commentary, please) and after you PROOFREAD it, submit it as your entry in the comments section below.
Welcome to the Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. In 250 words or less, write a story incorporating the elements in the picture at left. The 250 word limit will be strictly enforced.
Please keep language and subject matter to a PG-13 level.
Use the comment section below to submit your entry. Entries will be accepted until Tuesday at 5:00 PM Pacific Time. No political or religious entries, please. Need help getting started? Read this article on how to write flash fiction.
On Wednesday, we will open voting to the public with an online poll so they may choose the winner. Voting will be open until 5:00 PM Thursday. On Saturday morning, the winner will be recognized as we post the winning entry along with the picture as a feature.
Once a month, the admins will announce the Editors’ Choice winners. Those stories will be featured in an anthology like this one. Best of luck to you all in your writing!
Entries only in the comment section. Other comments will be deleted. See HERE for additional information and terms. Please note the rule changes for 2018.
Storm Warning
“You’re not going out in this weather, are you?”
She asks because I normally hunker down at the first sight of rain. I am wet-phobic. Mind you, I do shower daily even if it isn’t necessary.
Intentionally permitting mother nature to have her teary-eyed way with me is anathema.
This wasn’t the way I was as a child. Then, be damned if I could be kept housebound in inclement weather. Faster than you could say ‘oilskins’, I‘d be out in whatever torrential tide was sweeping the neighbourhood. I jumped in mud-puddles with a maniacal glee that often saw friends stare at me as if I was some soggy extraterrestrial from a desert-prone planet finally discovering earth sludge.
Aging had knocked that predisposition for muck and mire out of me.
“I thought I might,” I finally answer her, knowing it is bound to engender further discussion.
“Why? It’s getting hairy out there.”
To assuage her concern, I say, “I won’t be long.”
I swiftly slip my feet into dusty gumboots and haul out a long-underused rain slicker.
Dressed for a second kick at my long-curtailed childhood passion, I step outside.
The wind is up to about seventy klicks and escalating. Trees are leaning at ten o’clock and whipping back to one.
I walk three feet into the howl.
Then return to my shelter.
“Back so soon?” she snickers.
“Forgot something,” I mutter.
“And what would that be?”
“Hot chocolate and a good book.”
“Coming up,” she beams.
As director of the nation’s weather service, Marcy was not given to panicking in the face of weather-related catastrophes. Her bureau had long been successful in warning the public of impending disaster. But in the last several years, it was clear to her something had changed for the worse: specifically, the climate.
Many, of course, took the other side of the argument, though their numbers were dwindling. Still, relatively short-term variations muddled long-term trends, so a definitive answer to climate change remained elusive.
This year, however, even the doubters were concerned. The A-named hurricane, which normally appears toward the end of May—the season “officially” begins June 1st—appeared in the Bay of Campeche in mid-April and moved slowly up the Texas coast before drifting over New Orleans. There, as a Category 3 storm, it spent four days drowning the city in 3 feet of rain before finally moving inland.
In the months that followed, the C, E, F, G, H, I and J storms also appeared early, some by up to 2 months. And while the previous, earliest K storm was Hurricane Katrina, on Aug. 24, 2005, Marcy now was staring at a radar screen on August 14th showing Hurricane Kyle—a Category 5 storm and growing—centered 185 miles southeast of Atlantic City. This K-storm now was the earliest 11th named storm on record.
The intercom on her phone console buzzed.
It was Brad, her executive assistant: “The President is on Line 1.”
The foghorn’s dull lowing intruded into his consciousness. Otis curled up more tightly inside his sleeping bag, making himself small. The wind across the Saint Lawrence was cold tonight, gusting up to more than thirty knots, bringing the temperature on the lee side of the lighthouse to below freezing.
“You got any food?” The consonants he heard were slurred, the vowels heavy. The eyes behind them were dark, just a hint of a shine in the shadows.
“I wish. It’s been a while. Nothing but gleanings and throwaways.” Otis had seen the tourists leaving the bay area, the restaurants closing, the lines at the soup kitchens growing longer. There were fewer people working the land, the pickings on the community gardens dwindling to nothing. Raw potatoes had become his staple.
But not anymore. He was starving now.
The foghorn sounded again, and he felt a stirring. The stranger pulled at the zip on the sleeping bag, unfolding the flap and letting the night roll in.
“You’ve got some heat. I can use that.”
The body that eased alongside him was angular, all knees and elbows. It drew the warmth from him like a glacier, cobalt and numbness. A mouth found his then drew away, both promising and teasing.
Otis sighed and pulled the other person close. He needed someone to share his misery, someone to draw the sting from his life. He closed his eyes and gave up everything he owned.
The police found his still body three days later.
Hurricane Furies
Doctor Anomaly pressed the gas pedal. “BIG THINK, a hurricane’s on its way. We must hurry back home.”
The supercomputer, housed inside a tablet that was secured to the car’s front dash, scanned the road ahead. “Hurry, doctor.”
The car sped up, causing the tablet to bounce repeatedly on the car’s dash.
“Are you trying to make me dizzy?”
“Sorry,” the doctor replied. “There’s a strong wind. Hard to fight it and stay on the road at the same time.”
The supercomputer glanced in his direction. “I’d help with the driving, but…”
The winds grew in strength and the car swerved repeatedly to avoid debris.
“Watch out for that downed telephone pole,” BIG THINK yelled.
“Who’s driving?”
“I’m the navigator.”
Just then a cow flew across their path.
BIG THINK watched as it disappeared on the other side of the road. “Are cows supposed to do that?”
“Not ordinarily.”
The strong winds eventually morphed into hurricane furies. The sheer force of the winds picked up the car Doctor Anomaly and BIG THINK were in, spun it in circles, and then carried it across several open fields.
BIG THINK stared wide-eyed out the window. “Will we land soon?”
“I don’t know,” the doctor yelled, trying to be heard above the storm. He leaned on the steering wheel and watched the blustering winds swirl around them. “But one thing’s for sure. We’re in for one hell of a bounce when this car makes contact with earth again.”
Down the jetty, beyond the lighthouse, the keeper’s cabin fades in the mist. The tower beside it like a slender needle, one hardly made for permanence; the unlikeliest of havens. That beacon, something to hold to when tossed on the unforgiving sea.
From a distance, through the fog, it must raise the most exhilarating hope in doomed seafarers; like a longed-for Governor’s reprieve for a death-row inmate. You hold out hope until the last second. When the needle enters your arm, you accept you haven’t outrun fate.
Standing on the shore, I thought of this as clouds gathered and the winds picked up. All was white caps and churn. Brave or stupid surfers bobbed on the swells, holding out till the last safe minute. Behind me, a patrol car holding open the last bridge to the mainland. The siren’s call a muted squawk entreating stragglers to make haste.
Storms are always huddling on our periphery and will rush on us with little warning. What brief alerts to danger we receive pass undetected by those lacking an experienced eye. For those hardened by bitter experience, the slightest breeze brings involuntary rigidity. You snap to attention. Your body reacts; your awareness of causes follows.
Before the storm breaks, we freeze. Nervous smiles on our faces. After the worst of it washes over us and leaves us bewildered and numb, we look back into the abyss reflecting on our dumb luck.
The light sweeps over me; my brief alert. I know to leave.
“You have got to be kidding…please tell me you’re joking.”
Two months later –
“We are here today to review our procedures, based on testimony given to USDUMP. Let me open these proceedings with the following statement –
Hurricane Kyle, which was officially known as Tropical Storm Kyle, was one of the five longest lasting tropical storms on record. The storm lasted twenty-two days and it took an erratic path through the North Atlantic. It circled the island of Bermuda and when it finally made land fall in the Carolinas, it spawned an F2 tornado.
We have learned that one of our associates augmented our authorized seeding regimen.
We believe this augmentation caused Kyle to be totally unpredictable and mosey around the Atlantic like a drunken sailor. Unlike some tropical storms and hurricanes, Kyle did not cause any loss of lives, although eight people were injured.
Our official role has been to mitigate the damaging effects of hurricanes, and it does seem we were indeed successful in the case of Kyle.
Now, we are here to understand where our procedures were not followed. I would like Mr. Wilson, who is going for his doctorate, to describe where he modified our seeding methodology.
Mr. Wilson. “
“Thank you, sir. Well as many of you know, I’m from Kentucky. My pappy was a moonshiner and proud of it. The simple explanation is that I seeded the hurricane with Bourbon pellets. I’m satisfied to say, Kyle never reached its forecasted hurricane level.”
Hurricane Kyle
I always knew that my boyfriend relished speed, adventure and high risks in his love of extreme sports. For him, the adrenaline rush of speeding along a zip line hundreds of feet above earth or the exhilaration of diving in shark infested waters was like renewing his life blood. No wonder, he went through girlfriends so quickly; they just did not hunger after broken bones. I am shy and an introvert by nature, so Karl brought out a more dynamic me. I swore that I would not participate in any of his higher risk adventures like canoeing along rapids, hang gliding off cliffs or bungee jumping in crocodile rivers. However, I found that watching Karl participate alone in street luging was just as costly to my health as participating. As he whizzed around the corner at a fearsome speed, I burst into a deadly sweat, my heart had tremors, my knees gave way and I was the one who ended up in hospital. I asked myself, why should I endure a panic attack by being the spectator, when I could be beside Karl enjoying thrills.
The problem was that Karl was not only gorgeous physically, but had a charismatic character which I found addictive!
So what were we doing in quiet quaint Carolina?
Then it hit- Hurricane Kyle, one of the longest lived Atlantic cyclones! As tourists rushed inland and the radio burst with advice to stay away from the beach, Karl looked lovingly from the hotel window to the raging sea and thunderous waves. Grabbing my hand, he rushed out towards the Atlantic. Kneeling down in the wet sand with a backdrop of an angry ocean he proposed to me. We could not hear our voices above the crash of salt water. Smugly, he led me back to the hotel.
Over a romantic candle light meal, he tried to slip a gigantic solitaire on my finger. I hastily stood up and screamed, “Didn’t you hear me above the huge waves and your even huger ego? I said ‘No’ to marrying you!”
KARMA
In September 2008, Hurricane Kyle roared up from Puerto Rico and made landfall in Nova Scotia. Days before, another sort of hurricane roared down Wall Street and tanked a multi-billion dollar investment bank, once Heather’s data services client until their contracts guy, Sam, got her team fired.
Other banks and U.S. government officials refused to bail out the company’s subprime mortgage debt built on the back of the housing bubble. Maybe some of those folks felt the same way about the place as Heather did. It declared bankruptcy and sent employees into the street in droves.
Heather’s team was one of several assigned to the account in recent years. The contract guy’s check was calculated on how much he could squeeze by waging constant disputes.
“Slimy,”a team member whispered once. “I need a shower after Sam’s meetings.”
When Sam couldn’t get any more, he’d approach her company’s management and lobby to change the team for something he called “better fit.”
On the day of the bankruptcy, Heather spotted Sam pushing through the door, balancing on his shoulder a box of plaques and papers from his office.
She caught his eye. “It’s so sad.” Her voice was soft and whiny as she was sure his had been each time he asked that a team be fired from the account.
He looked like a frightened gazelle. One cheek was wet. He cleared his throat but nothing came out. Heather shrugged and pranced down the street without looking back.
The howling wind filled the house like a physical presence. Kylie had plenty of experience with tornadoes and blizzards from growing up in the Midwest. A hurricane was a different matter.
When she’d signed up as lighthouse keeper, it had seemed an easy job. With automation, a modern lighthouse practically ran itself – but by law someone had to be here for emergencies. Which meant that, when she wasn’t doing her thrice-daily checks of the equipment, her time was her own – a welcome change from all those clerical and food-service jobs that demanded busywork during idle periods.
With so much time to paint, her portfolio was becoming comfortably fat, like her bank account. She’d been looking forward to finishing this job and heading back to civilization with enough backstopping to get through several lean months while getting into galleries.
And now this. The whole house was shaking, and right now she wanted to hide.
In the distance a ship’s horn blew, a low and mournful note. Somewhere out there, people were depending on that lighthouse to get them safely past these rocky shoals.
Kylie threw on her rain slicker and dashed across the ground, bent double to present the least surface to the mounting wind. She was barely able to wrestle the lighthouse door open, as she heard a crash behind her. Shutting the door, she saw the keeper’s house collapse and wash into the sea.
No time to mourn. She had a job to do.