PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
He watched the horses through the snow, Winston whining at his feet. This was the life he’d wanted: his own man, beholden to no one, but not like this. He’d been lost when Sandy died, not sure he wanted to go on, but what then would happen to Denny and the other horses? To Winston?
“Come on, boy. Let’s get the stock in the barn. Ain’t got enough sense between’em to get outa the snow.”
The air outside hung fresh and clean and crisp, scented with pine needles and the growing storm. He stepped into the pasture, horses raising their heads to watch him come.
The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story/poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide. Read more here.
The storm rolled in the distance, clouds growing darker, heavier, with rain and whatever else lay inside. He didn’t know. Nobody knew. Since the Change, the Weather seemed a force of its own, changing on a whim. Those like him, meteorologists, were shut out. None of their knowledge meant anything now. The weather was, for all purposes, a living being holding the world, and him, hostage.
And so he waited at the window. Those who’d worked by his side were dying, one after one after one. He was next or the storm would not have come. Soon life and things wouldn’t matter. The apartment. The furniture, the painting, his favorite wine. Pictures of friends and family long gone.
In his world, alone was a physical presence looming just behind.
The building quivered. He let the storm roll closer, engulf his building in its death-grip. Climbing into the open window, he dove into the heart of the storm. For the briefest second, he felt the storm one with him. For the briefest second, he understood. And then, he was gone.
The only idea which sprang to mind in reference to Drive was this picture. So I am putting forth a picture story instead of a written story. Choose you own beginning, middle and end!
The Neighbors, Part 3
There are those among us who live stormy lives. Nasty men. Vicious women. Forgotten children. You will never see them. They pretend normalcy; friends and neighbors and co-workers. Inside they are monsters.
Am I one? Some things are best discovered on your own.
It was storming the day the dog disappeared. Pumpkin. Janice’s little mutt.
She showed up at my door, with James, to ask if I had seem the little thing. Such a sad little tear-stained face. Boredom for James.
I knelt down, smiled my smiliness. “No, I haven’t. Maybe Pumpkin ran away.”
“Pumpkin would never run away,” she replied, eyes red-rimmed and serious. “He loves me.”
“Perhaps he got lost in the storm.”
I looked up at James. “Have you called the Shelters?”
They didn’t deserve her really. Boredom. The curse of modern life.
“Come in,” I continued. “We’ll call to see if anybody found Pumpkin.”
This was the first time she’d crossed my threshold. I shuddered at the thought, but one must make sacrifices.
Phoning produced nothing. Nobody had seen, or found, Pumpkin.
We printed up flyers to post after the storm. Walked the neighborhood the next day, stapling up posters, looking for the mutt, calling its name.
We all lose those important to us. Except the monsters.
The next afternoon, I knocked on their door, offering in my hand. James answered. Funny, but I hadn’t seen Jane since that first day. Move-In day.
He tilted his head like a cocker spaniel.
“How is poor Janice?”
“She’ll be fine,” he replied. “It’s just a mutt.”
My sentiments exactly, but it wasn’t my place to say.
I offered him the dish. “Pumpkin Pie?”
“I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.”
–Louisa May Alcott
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― Haruki Murakami
The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide.
To learn more about the challenge, click Here
The storm rose sudden-like, lightening snapping cloud to cloud, momentarily illuminating night into day. I cringed at the next strike, ducking below the ridge separating us from the sea.
“We’re too high!” For once, couldn’t he just say, ‘You are so right, Icarus. Let’s amble on down this mountain, have a brew.’
“Never!” he screamed, balancing on the lip, daring lightening to strike.
I started seriously looking for a place to hide.
“You’re the one who wanted to fly,” he grinned, arms like wings. “Fly, Icarus, fly!”
I huddled closer to the ground, inching backwards one shuffle at a time. I wanted to fly, but from a tree limb, not the top of fricking Mount Olympus! I slid another few feet.
Leaping off the ridge, he grabbed me by collar and belt, slung me up to dangle over the edge. With one mighty swing, he let go.
I screamed, flapping my wings like crazy to stay…..frick….. falling like a rock towards the sea.
Daedalus howled laughter. “I’m the inventor not you!”
Grabbing the glider behind him, also not invented by Icarus, he strapped it over his arm, leaped into the storm.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― Haruki Murakami