Flash Frenzy Round 68

Posted: July 4, 2015 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , ,

Welcome to Flash Frenzy Round 68. This 4th of July weekend, Steph Ellis will be our firecracker judge.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

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Comments
  1. Rebekah Postupak says:

    The Dream

    It was the way his wife looked at him that Sergei hated most: crushed. Hollow, like something had broken inside. Truth be told, things had gotten somewhat out of hand, what with the house burning down, the car accident, and his getting temporarily jailed in a bizarre case of identity theft. Puzzling, too, given the contract he’d bought; he’d even double—triple!—checked the fine print.

    “I’m still getting the American Dream, right?” He typed the words, trembling.

    “Absolutely.” Luc’s response rolled smoothly across the chat window. “Contracts are honored to the letter.”

    So Sergei bought Lexie roses and assured her everything would be okay. Insurance company checks would roll in soon, setting them up beautifully on the rich side of town.

    “You’ll love it, Lexie,” he said. “There’s a little river. We can go for picnics. Go boating. Think how romantic it’ll be.”

    Lexie didn’t answer, just gazed at him, tears running down her cheeks. Frankly, Sergei found it a little irritating (as a writer, shouldn’t she go for that kind of stuff?!), but he reminded himself he was a stand-up guy, a true gentleman — plus, the house came with the whitest white picket fence and an apple tree! There was even space in the back yard for a little memorial garden. That should make Lexie happy. He’d plant forget-me-nots and order a marble marker engraved with something poetic. And who knows, this time next year they might have another kid, like starting fresh.

    It wasn’t meant to be, though; six months after they’d moved in, he came down with cancer, and suddenly they were counting the remainder of Sergei’s life in weeks.

    “It’s all my fault,” said Lexie dully.

    “How do you figure?” Sergei had reread his contract a thousand times to no avail; like a fool he’d never specified how long.

    Lexie, slow as death, pressed a tattered paper against the isolation glass. Its familiar, elegant first line Sergei could have calligraphed in his sleep: Irrevocable Contract.

    But the second line.

    Oh, that second line.

    Sergei began to laugh. He laughed and laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

    Lexie’s Autobiography to be a New York Times Bestseller.

    359 words
    @postupak

  2. Horrible Holidays

    Can you tell me where you were when you first had the idea for Horrible Holidays?

    Fortnight’s holiday from a dull-as-ditch-water job. Send you to sleep if I told you what. I was relaxing by an Amsterdam canal. Gorgeous day. Sunny, not too warm. Bit of a breeze. I was rereading a favourite book, having a nice cool drink and watching the world go by. Family had gone for a bike ride. Meeting up later for lunch. We were alternating sightseeing with quiet days. It hit me. Midday all ready, halfway through the first week. Time was flying. If I was having a horrible time two weeks would seem much longer.

    Describe a typical Horrible Holiday to me.

    Hard to say really. Each Horrible Holidayer gets a questionnaire and from that we tailor make their vile vacation.

    What sort of questions?

    We need to find out what they hate. From food and drink to activities and everything in between. For example, we recently sent Mrs J to a mountain top in a thunder storm to eat endless plates of liver and peas while sitting in a shed which smelt of lawn mower fuel. Her testimonial reads ‘Thanks to Horrible Holidays and their attention to detail, I’ve never been so glad to get back to everyday life. The week dragged on and on. A truly dreadful time.’ Another Horrible Holidayer endured two weeks of eating cheese, drinking cider and listening to heavy metal on a yacht.

    I like the sound of that.

    Wouldn’t get that treatment from us. Maybe you could do our rain, handicrafts & tofu week. Very popular. Comes with free crochet lesson and as much organic muesli as you can force down.

    Sounds awful. And you have a deluxe package?

    We’re very proud to offer Hardcore Horrible Holiday, a full kidnapping at gun point, torture and starvation package for those who want their holiday to seem like a lifetime. Horrible Holidayer, Mr BS says ‘Thrilled to be finally allowed back to my mouldy bedsit and my job on Super Bargains box crushing machine.’

    And where are you going for your holiday?

    New York, Florida and a Caribbean cruise.

    @SalnPage
    360 words
    #FlashDog

  3. A V Laidlaw says:

    Beauty, Undismayed

    Now in sensible middle-age, Marie sits by the river with a book on her lap, turning a page occasionally but not following the words. She watches the the sunlight fragment and reform on the ripples and the boats bob and jostle like timid lovers trying to catch each other’s attention.

    On a boat close to the bridge, a boy balances on the ever shifting deck. He is barefoot and shirtless, graceful and careless as he coils a rope around the cleat. Marie thinks him beautiful and is not ashamed. The river brought another beautiful boy once, years ago, an American with hair down to his shoulders and ragged holes in his jeans that made Maman exclaim these Americans had no sense of style. But Maman never looked at the brown of his eyes or his long shy eyelashes.

    He was not a tourist. He insisted on that. He came here to learn French so he could read Baudelaire in the original and he read her a few lines from the broken-spine paperback taken from his backpack. His accent was so bad she barely stifled her laugh with her fingertips. He looked so annoyed, his brown eyes almost squeezed shut, that she put her arms around his shoulders and whispered she would teach him to speak beautifully.

    That autumn he said goodbye beautifully when he went back to college in America and left Marie here by the river and pregnant. Maman, of course, did not speak for three days but sat at the kitchen table as if carved from stone. Dominic teased her and said the baby’s first words would be “howdy” in an American accent. Amelia did not have an accent although she had her father’s eyes.

    The boy on the boat is about Amelia’s age now. He stands with one hand on his hip for a moment, with a lithe strength in his arms and chest and his eyes closed against the fragmented sunlight, and then he is gone. Marie goes back to her book. The river brings things on its current and then takes them away again. That is the way of it.

    @AvLaidlaw
    357 Words

  4. Beautiful … ‘barefoot and shirtless, graceful and careless …’

  5. stevenstucko says:

    THE NAKED TRUTH (360 words)

    Believe me when I say that my mother is a compulsive liar. I’m not kidding. There’s paperwork I could show you. It’s well documented.

    Don’t get me wrong. I love Mom, but growing up it was kind of hard to figure out when she was telling the truth. They say one should take certain people’s words with a grain of salt. Well, with my mother is was more like a pound bag of Morton’s. When it rains, it pours. That’s Mom.

    She told me my dad died a war hero but then I found out she gets child support checks. Once she said, after a third glass of chardonnay, that I was her favorite son. But I grew up an only child! She calls herself a “true blonde.” Yeah, right. She’s been in her “forties” for, like, twenty years. Her Red Hat girlfriends formed a book club and instead of reading the book she watches the movie. Not cool.

    Last Spring, Mom wrote me at school to say she had accepted a teaching position with the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. I thought I would surprise her by flying over and taking her out to dinner to celebrate her new dream job. Turns out there is no school at the museum. Just a bunch of ill-informed docents, that’s it. I had the sinking feeling that I had quite often growing up – Mom had spun another one of her tales. But she had sent, like, ten postcards from Amsterdam! I can show you to prove it.

    That night I was wandering around the city and found myself in the red light district. I wasn’t planning on going there, honest. I looked up at one of the windows and, damn! My mother sitting on a chaise lounge twirling a long fake pearl necklace! The sign on the window read: Hot Pants. I almost lost my lunch.

    I headed to the nearest coffee shop to try one of those funny cigarettes. I needed to forget that this was all happening. Hot Pants? Really? All I could think of was liar, liar, pants on fire.

    • Geoff Holme says:

      A veritable chortle fest, Steve, and all building up to a truly groan-worthy pun.

      [You were doing so well but I’ve broken out the square brackets, so that must mean… here come the didcactics! That really ought to be a ‘chaise longue‘ – “It’s French, Rodney!”, as the catchphrase from a really old UK advert used to go… Can’t remember the product though… Anyone?]

      • stevenstucko says:

        I thought of that Geoff, honestly, no lie. It’s the truth. [Pinocchio nose growth]. But then thought it would be un peu pre’tentieux. [BTW, I know that should be in italics but I can’t figure out how to make that happen on the Angry Hourglass site.] Love the lessons!

    • Pattyann McCarthy says:

      Wow Steven! This is fun, light and loose (pun intended)! Great piece and I too, lol’ed at the end! Nice work. 🙂

    • mtdecker says:

      Very well done! Your ran the full emotional gamut and still managed to surprise me. Very well done!.

    • voimaoy says:

      What a character! Fantastic story 🙂

    • What an awesome character story. I liked being pulled along through the complicated history.

  6. Dreadful mother … made me laugh at the end! 😉

  7. C Connolly says:

    For Now Or Forever

    The boat is already waiting, close to the bank, with the water lapping, as Cara approaches the edge. As she puts a foot on board it sways slightly as her weight disturbs its easy equilibrium. The rope tethering the vessel swings in accompaniment.

    “Fare, please,” a thin voice demands. Cara looks down, seeing the tiny hand outstretched towards her. She frowns slightly, squinting.

    “What are you?” she murmurs, looking into the bleached face with its dark pupil-less eyes beneath wispy strands of white hair; looking through the skin itself, where objects behind it display themselves.

    The girl shrugs her shoulders. “Ferrymaid, for now. Fare taker forever, perhaps, if day due Danakes remain unpaid – with lesser lads ‘n wenches.”

    “I..” Cara says.

    “Pay up or hop off,” the girl interjects. “Others ‘ll be waiting. ‘Tis not my matter when women wish to wander. Though we’d call it wasteful when we’re all wanting ‘n wishing for farther in..”

    “We?” Cara asks.

    The young girl shakes her head quickly. “What may be – as well as what was once, though but half-formed; what should be, should circumstance allow.”

    “Large thoughts for one so little,” Cara says, brow creased. “Do you know what they mean?”

    “Do you?” the girl retorts. “Since my fare’s still owing? Will we journey – or will you bide by the Styx? Your choice; where others have little hope of it.” After a pause, “You must be dead, y’know. ‘Tis decided. I’d be dead too by now, if I could.”

    “Would you?” Cara asks, shortly followed by, “Sorry? What?”

    “You’ll understand, in a while. ‘Tis not for me to say.”

    “Isn’t it, though?” Cara asks. “Is there no choice in anything for the Never Weres? Or is that Never Ares? Do you yourselves distinguish between the two? If not – shouldn’t you?” She lets out a quick breath.

    “Remembering now, a little?” the girl queries. “Though your Isle awaits. You’ll be better there,” she adds. “Forget about this; me. You’ll mean to remember. You’ll even try to – but won’t.”

    “Will so!” Cara exclaims. “God – you’ve got me regressing!”

    “Not possible; not now,” the girl says. “Your time’s passed and ebbing.”

    @FallIntoFiction
    #FlashDog

    (360 words)

  8. Stella T says:

    @stellakateT
    307 words

    Invite for Tea

    The man, next to me on the bench tells me she’d been sitting in that fold-up chair for years, just reading. I thought she was a statue until she’d flicked over the next page. He tells me more, something to do with river spirits and dead babies, think that’s what he saying as I can’t translate very well. I was trying to learn the language but it’s a slow process. I’m learning to play the ukulele, go to Pilate classes and write my first novel, so I’m letting my imagination run riot. I’m determined not to go to seed. I’ve heard about people retiring and then dropping dead from boredom. I have a five year plan to work through.

    I hear their conversation. It makes me smile. Have I really been sitting here for years? Hugo exaggerates. He loves talking to the tourists. This one seems to know a bit of the language but her replies are nonsensical. What have river spirits and dead babies to do with me? Perhaps they are discussing the book I’m reading. It’s one of mine. I wrote it years ago. Sure there are no dead babies. My memory isn’t so sharp now so maybe I could have slipped the odd one into this story. I need to ask Hugo when we get home.

    The woman intrigues me. She tries to converse, not like most tourists who expect the world to speak English. She’s so interested in Elena. I tell her our story. She mentions dead babies. We’ve never had children. I need to ask Elena when we get home if she’s ever miscarried or worse. She would never do that. I’ll ask the tourist home for tea. It will do Elena good to have company.

    I hope he doesn’t invite her home for tea. The last one stayed for three weeks.

  9. Pattyann McCarthy says:

    @PattyannMC
    WC 347

    La Seine

    It’s a brilliant day as I sit by La Seine. My bicycles for rent to the left, my rowboat to the right, gently bob in the soft wakes. Small thumps sedate me as it hits the bumpers on the dock as I wait for the tourists to come flocking. It’s early, a crisp chill in the morning air and I’m content simply to be as the sun warms my shoulders.

    I know they will come; they always do. I know the larger boats will capture the tourists first as they excitedly jostle by. Eventually, my wooden rowboat, or my bicycles will be the only transportation left to hire so my days’ money will come. I take my seat, my water bottle within reach, an opened book on my lap as the city wakes.

    Jarring horns blare in the early morn while gridlocked traffic snarls over the bridge as the day begins, but this is usual; I pay no mind. My tranquility remains intact. I open my book and immerse myself in words dripping with sentiment . . .

    . . . My daughter turns one today! Her smile is as bright as the sunshine first thing in the morning. That precious face greets me, happy to see me, trusting that I’ll always be there for her, but she doesn’t know, can’t know, that it isn’t so. Her little curls plastered to her forehead with sweat from the humid air, her green eyes twinkle when she sees me, like all the stars in the heavens merged into two pools upon her face, and my heart breaks each morn as I greet her. Little fingers flex and relax, wanting to be held. I hold her, breathing in the morning sleep that clings to her soft skin. I wish I could hold her forever, hold her childhood scent in my nostrils for eternity.

    She’ll never know, never understand the deep, aching love I have for her, so I leave my journal behind, so that she may understand, it is not my choice to leave her . . .

    “Excuse me, is this boat for rent?”

    I sigh, smiling sadly.

  10. joshbertetta says:

    Josh Bertetta
    “The Old Man and the Island”
    359 Words
    @JBertetta
    #FlashDog

    He sat there, debating whether or not to go out to sea. The weather was fair enough, but he could not decide, as he sat there, debating, whether or not the effort it would take would be worth it.

    He was, after all, an old man now and his muscles, big as they were from oaring himself over such great distances, still ached.

    Though unlikely, he hoped something had change and couldn’t risk not knowing, of missing his chance.

    They first met a great many years ago, long before any sign of time wrinkled their flesh or greyed their hair. Little time passed before they fell in love. Looking back on it, there, as he pondered, he remembered first falling in love at the sight of the little corner of her lip tighten in an almost imperceptible curl. Sometimes he even recognized it when he, out on the open ocean, paused to take a breath and the water eddied that all too familiar way it did around the oar.

    Then one day she moved away, found herself an island, she who required space.

    So he set out to find her and find her he did, there upon a large hill at the island’s center. He saw her first, smiled and waved, then let his eyes fall to the stone wall she’d begun to erect around her little island.

    He sailed around the island, seeking a place he might dock, but found none. He called out to her, but the waves, crashing upon the wall as they did, drowned him out and he, chin to chest, rowed the great distance back home.

    Day after day, he went to her, his love, only to find the wall that much taller until one day, after many a year of going out just to see her from his little dinghy, he found the wall she’d built had outgrown the hill.

    The years went by and he hoped by then the waves, much like his efforts, would have eroded the wall just enough he could squeeze through.

    But it never did.

    And so he sat, debating whether or not to go out to sea.

  11. voimaoy says:

    The City and the River
    @voimaoy
    330 words

    Before the city, there was the river. The river winds through the city, and walkways wind along the shore. Curved buildings rise along the river, mirror the light on water. The city was settled by fur traders. Now, people in furs walk the Magnificent Mile.

    The river moves through time, from the mist of the past to green visions of the future.

    The city grew along the banks like water weeds. Marshland became warehouses, factories, processing plants. The cries of water birds were replaced by whistles of freight trains. Now the river is a tourist attraction.

    On summer afternoons along the riverway, there are bicycles and joggers. Here is the dock, where motorized boats wait to take visitors on a tour of the architecture along the river, and out into the lake beyond. The skyline at sunset is magnificent. The city at night is incomparable.

    Danny Ryan, Chicago-born, sits reading at the dock. He offers a different tour. The rowboat is a ride through another place and time. One can almost imagine Venice, gondolas gliding under bridges of black iron lace. He can count the first dates and marriage proposals that have taken place on his hired boat. Once, it was part of a wedding, accompanied by a fleet of canoes and kayaks. The bride’s white dress, a trail of white lace.

    But he dreams of the city before dawn, the river before the city. Thick fog hides the modern buildings, and the marshland returns. It is like the river reversing in time. It is Chicagou again, the outpost of the fur traders, where the wild onion grows.

    The moment hangs suspended in stillness, broken only by the sound of a splash. Through the mist, he can see a canoe gliding between the canyons of the buildings. In the canoe is a girl with thick black braids. Her skin is covered with designs like tattoos.

    Through the curtains of mist, she sees him, too, her eyes open wide with surprise.

    • joshbertetta says:

      Love the change in voice between the first and second halves and the telling of your city’s history (I’m assuming). Haunting.

    • stevenstucko says:

      Loved this Voi. I’m from Chicago. I lost myself in soft memories as you gracefully gave wistful details of my old stomping grounds. I love that river and it’s nice to reflect back to the days when Chicago was the farthest Western territory. I’ll send this to my brother who works in one of the shiny canyon buildings that you describe. Knowing him, he’ll probably pass it around the office.

      • voimaoy says:

        Thank you, Steven! I love the city and the river, too. So glad you enjoyed the story. I hope your brother also enjoys it. Thanks, again.

    • Pattyann McCarthy says:

      Really love the imagery in here, and the ‘feeling’ of going back in time. Great piece Voima!

    • Excellent. Such a beautifully drawn big picture!

    • mtdecker says:

      Wow! Breathtaking… that’s the only word I can come up with. I love how you tell this story in images and longing and the end brings it together – it isn’t just imagination.

  12. voimaoy says:

    Thanks for reading, Josh! (Yes, there’s a bit of history. And there are architecture tours along the river…) So glad you enjoyed.

  13. mtdecker says:

    Points of Departure

    259 words
    @mishmhem
    #FlashDogs

    The young couple walked down the Seine as they always did, loving the traffic as speed boats and tour boats battled with barges: the heartbeat of a great city.

    They loved the life, the sheer history that surrounded them. It was a magic they wanted to share with the world.

    As they passed the old woman, they spoke in hushed tones, but she heard them. At first she had tuned them out.

    It was easy. She had long ago learned to tune out the smells and the loud noises: the noxious fumes kicked off by the tourist’s boats. Despite her best efforts, their conversation began to seep into her consciousness.

    At first she was curious as to what they had to say, and then she was simply amused. They saw her sitting there, lost in thought as she let he mind take her anywhere, any time she desired. She was an astronaut, a swashbuckler, a maid-in-waiting… anything she wanted to be. All she had to do is crack open a book, or turn on her tablet and start writing.

    That was the true magic of the place for her.

    She focused on her writing, keeping an ear open for their return and was surprised when she heard them talk in somber tones.

    “Its such a shame,” one said.

    “Every day, she sits here alone, blind to the beauty around her,” the other finished.

    “Some people are blind to what’s right in front of them.

    She forced herself not to smile, but she felt the same about them.

  14. A.J. Walker says:

    People Watching
    A.J. Walker

    George left for his little jaunt with his friends on a lovely hot day – kissing Julia gently on one cheek and giving her a loving hug. Once he was gone from view Julia positioned her chair to face the sun; she knew it was wrong but she liked to get a bit of colour to show off early in the summer. Early afternoon she would face along the canal towards the bridge. It was her favourite view with so many people passing over it. It wasn’t uncommon for her to struggle to complete one chapter when the people watching was particularly distracting.

    Sometime after One a slightly inebriated Englishman pointed at her. “Look at her, lads. She’s good. This street art is everywhere in Amsterdam!” He took out his phone and took a quick selfie with the lady and her book.

    “Is it street art or street theatre when they do this sculpture stuff?” said one lad from the stag group.

    “Amazing what people do to earn a few bob. Hats off to them.”

    He threw a 5 Euro note onto the crumbed plate beside her.

    “Come on. Let’s get down to the red light!”

    By the end of the evening Julia had amassed 50 euros on her plate – and four half drunk bottles of Heineken at her feet.

    Over the next two days numerous people stopped for selfies with lady and her book as she became something of a celebrity. There was even a hashtag on Twitter to put with your photos. And the money – and bottles – kept rolling in.

    On Friday she made the Amsterdam Times a photograph was titled as ‘the lady with the book’ and a small piece marveled at her ability to stay still – and at the money that she’d collected.

    When George returned from his trip to Hamburg he found Julia exactly where he’d left her five days earlier. She was over 200 Euros richer, but a decidedly deader than when he left.

    His life was at an end.

    Not that anyone would notice.

    (340 words)
    @zevonesque
    in a rush before slee…

  15. Geoff Holme says:

    Cycling

    She is sitting in a wood and canvas folding chair, beside coruscating waters of a gently flowing river, between bicycles and a row boat, and opening a browser app on her tablet. She is going to a flash fiction weblog and reading a story about a woman…

    She is sitting in a wood and canvas folding chair, beside coruscating waters of a gently flowing river, between bicycles and a row boat, and opening a browser app on her tablet. She is going to a flash fiction weblog, hoping to write a story based on a photo prompt. She is studying the photo of a woman…

    She is sitting in a wood and canvas folding chair, beside coruscating waters of a gently flowing river, between bicycles and a row boat, and opening a browser app on her tablet. She is going to a flash fiction weblog hoping to write a story based on a photo prompt. She studies the photo of a woman. She is wondering about the person who took the photograph…

    She is looking through the viewfinder of her camera at a woman sitting in a wood and canvas folding chair, beside coruscating waters of a gently flowing river, between bicycles and a row boat, and opening a browser app on her tablet. She is pressing the shutter of her camera and capturing an image. Hoping to have the image used as a photo prompt, she sends the image to a flash fiction weblog which is run by a woman who studies the image and sees that it is of a woman…

    She is sitting in a wood and canvas folding chair, beside coruscating waters of a gently flowing river, between bicycles and a row boat, and opening a browser app on her tablet…

    @GeoffHolme
    #FlashDogs
    Word Count: 295

    • Pattyann McCarthy says:

      Kudos Geoff! I was thinking of doing something VERY similar with this prompt, but headed off in another direction in the end. Loved it! 🙂

      • Geoff Holme says:

        Thanks, Pattyann. It was the only inspiration I had from this photo prompt. I left it very late to start working on it, so it sort of fizzles out at the end, unfortunately…

    • voimaoy says:

      Fantastic! Love the way you did this…

    • stevenstucko says:

      Downwind from an Amsterdam coffee shop are we, Geoff?

      • Geoff Holme says:

        Are you implying that I must have been the victim of secondary smoking of herbal cigarettes, Steven? I didn’t think my effort was that psychoactive! I also didn’t pick up on the fact that it’s a canal in the photo prompt, rather than a river, but, hey, it was very late on Sunday night…

        (As regards your entry, when I ended up in the Amsterdam red-light district while on a school minibus trip round Europe over forty years ago – “We got lost, sir! Honest!” – the window “displays” were on the ground floor. But you probably have more up-to-date first-hand knowledge…)

  16. Choose Your Own Adventure

    You walk out your front door. You tilt your head back and look at a clear blue sky, radiating sun that is just warm enough, but not too hot, confirming that yes, it is a beautiful day.
    You walk to the end of your driveway.
    You turn left and walk to work. (Go to next paragraph)
    You turn right and walk to the river. (Go to paragraph A)

    You walk to work and think about how much you hate the sound of the constant stapling in the cube next to yours. You step in a mud puddle crossing the street and shake your fist and no one. At work your boss calls you by a name that rhymes with yours, but is in fact, not your name. At lunch you eat the same meal you eat every day while contemplating the possibility of flying out the lunchroom window. You sit at your desk until it’s time to go home.

    A. You walk down to the river. You spot a face-up penny winking in the sun and pocket it for good luck. You smell waffle cones being made just down the street and contemplate having ice cream for lunch. You arrive at the river and find a woman sitting in a chair beside a small row of bicycles and in front of a boat in the water. She is reading “Augustus Perkins and His Ten Thousand Pies”. You make a mental to note to find this book for yourself.
    She turns to face you and smiles, setting her book down in her lap, a single finger marking her place, and asks, “Would you like to rent a bike or a boat?”
    You say you would like to rent a boat. (Go to next paragraph)
    You say you would like to rent a bike. (Go to paragraph B)

    You spend the morning with the wind in your hair and salt spray in your face and have a wonderful adventure.

    B. You spend the morning with the wind in your hair and the mechanical whicker of spokes in your ears and have a wonderful adventure. Until you are eaten by a monster.

    360 words
    @CaseyCaseRose

  17. […] latest from The Angry Hourglass Volume 68 based on the prompt below. Click here to read Catherine Connolly’s winning […]

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