Apr. 4 - written by Christopher Rohan

Week 17

3-28-22 - Prompt: Incredulous

“There I stood, sittin’ on an old rusty bucket with my feet pressed to the prow, leaning my whole weight against the pull of whatever beast gobbled my quarry. I tell ya, the Merry Mary was yanked this way and that, a good two hundred yards toward the Gutters before my line snapped. Mary heaved to and fro, in a tantrum, she was, at being yanked around like a little rower. I’d fallen on my backside, but it took me only a moment to scramble to my feet to survey the waters. I only saw myself and the cloudy sky reflected in the waters and nothing stirred the surface, but the ripples of Mary’s fit. I was dumbstruck. ‘What sorta monster …’ I began to say to myself, when suddenly the waters rose and a great spout of water erupted, kicking Mary against the wind. She shuddered from stem to stern her anger turning to fear as I rose again. My legs are more used to sea than land, but not even I could stand up to that heave. I looked again to the waters, but could see nothing, just the wake of the beast until I looked down again toward my own reflection which I saw, but peering deeper, I saw two eyes looking back at me. They were meters deep, but massive and glowing yellow. I swear, they spied the very depths of my soul more than they spied the depths of the sea.”

The wearied old salt finished, waiting for the crowd to respond. They stared, some with pity, others skepticism, and a few beginning to laugh. 

“It’s all true, I tell ya!” he shouted.

“Sure it is, Jolly Roger,” said a young man, and the crowd began to scatter.

3-29-22 - Prompt: Donkey

Francis stood beneath his favorite tree. It was his favorite for several reasons: the shade it cast keeping the hot sun at bay, the bark that provided a tasty midday snack, but mostly because it was the only tree he’d ever seen. All around him was dusty ground, rocks, and small tufts of yellowed grass, but further beyond were tall brown mountains. Francis always wondered what it was like on those mountains, but he’d never gotten very close. Why would he leave his perfect life? he’d say to himself. He had everything he wanted and needed.

The tree stood not too far from a large patch of thistles that filled his belly. Just a little further from that was a small gully with a pool of fresh cold water.

The sun was hotter than usual, and the flies buzzed as Francis tried to flick them with his tail. A gentle breeze blew from the south carrying with it bouncing tumbleweeds racing across the valley.

“What an amazing day,” he said to no one in particular as there was never anyone around.

“What’s so amazing about?” came a soft slithering reply.

Francis nearly jumped out of his hide.

“Who said that?” he asked, whirling this way and that, looking for  the source of the voice.

“I did,” said the voice from the darkest shade behind the tree’s trunk.

Francis squinted, trying to see, so much he’d been staring at the sun-bleached valley. All he could see was a small lump, but as he looked the lump shifted and the long slender body of a rattle snake stretched beneath the canopy.

3-30-22 - Prompt: Silent

Anxious footsteps scuttled around with whispers and shooshes. A record player tinged the bouncing melodies of bygone era out of a long, curling, and brass horn in the room adjacent. Many tables held small and delicate parchment, aged, pinned down and wrapped in glass as many buyers bounded from table to table, scratching and scritting their bids onto crisp, white ledgers.

The collection of one P. Wilber Collins was unrivaled. The oldest known artifacts were not clay or any of the like, but somehow parchments. They shouldn’t have existed. A technology of this sort was not known to the rest of the world for at least another several thousand years, and yet, all tested and all proved, were these twenty-four parchments. No one had yet deciphered the meaning of any of the markings they displayed, but the resulting frenzy of those looking to get their hands on them. Their value would only go up.

William Collins had acquired them at his fathers passing, who’d received them from his uncle, the famed collector. Williams dad perpetuated the fascination, but William hadn’t the slightest clue what sort of treasure such possessions were. he was a money grubbing sort, very quick to spending and gambling. This was the last treasure he could hack, but the one that would set him and his poor habits up for life. He sat in the corner with that sort of jitter that only comes from addiction as the many folks skittered from one display to the next. 

“This is quite in bad taste, William,” came the voice of a middle aged man watching alongside the young seller.

“I don’t care, uncle. I just want to be done with these blasted papers. Do you know how many calls I get from various academics looking to view these silly things? And whenever I ask for even a small payment for the viewing, they look at me as if I owe it to them and to the world to have them researched.”

The young man’s uncle looked at him, mouth agape, “These were your great uncles prize. They are the oldest known record of intelligence and in such a way that shouldn’t even have lasted. They are remarkable, and you are selling them for another bet.”

3-31-22 - Prompt: Eyeglasses

Walter’s feet couldn’t go much faster. Even if they could, the wheels of his old rusty bike might fall off. He’d called home from work to check on his mom, but there was no answer. He tried several times while he was on break, but still nothing. He was always the responsible sort, so it was with considerable shame that he asked his manager if he could leave early to check on his mom. He remembered his manager saying that he could, but didn’t recall that he said so with much pity and concern, such was Walter’s fear for his mom.

The wind was cold, making his eyes water. As he rode, memories of the last year flooded his mind. The doctors telling him that they had no answers for what she was going through. Her fatigue and loss of strength had no medical answers, same as her memory fading in and out. The delusions were otherworldly. With the same vigor she’d had before any of this, she’d begin speaking in other languages she’d never known and talking about things not seen in the world for a millennia. Then, she fall into a chair and sleep for hours, only waking to the same drowsiness as before the mania. It was no longer the wind causing tears, it was sorrow.

Making the last turn at speed, Walter bumped and skidded down the long gravel driveway then hopped off his bike sending it careening into the yard to fall over in the grass he hadn’t had time or energy to mow. He took the porch steps two at a time and flinging the door open, he shouted, “Ma?” She didn’t answer. “Ma, how ya doing?” He quickly ran into her room. That’s where she’d be this time of day. She wasn’t there. Running to the bathroom, the door was open and it was empty. “Where is she?” He asked under his breath. He looked everywhere, and after doing so went back out to the porch.

The day was cloudy and carried a shudder of worry. Nothing stirred, but the leaves of the surrounding wood. he quieted himself, trying to figure out what to do, when he noticed a odd pressure in his ears and a sudden, quick wobbling in in the air. A thud and a crash came from just inside the house. Walter ran back into the house, “Ma?” and he glanced around, and there she was, resting in her recliner, as exhausted as always. He ran to her side, “Ma, are you ok? I was looking everywhere for you.”

“Huh? I was just resting here, sweetie,” she said matter-of-fact, but her glasses sat crooked on a tired face, wrapped in disheveled, and graying hair.