Feb. 3 - written by Christopher Rohan

Week 9

1-28-22 - Prompt: Incandescent

The firmament was stained orange and red as dark pillars rose from the surrounding fields. Torches quickly set ablaze the thatching and beams so set for security, now tinder for the enemy inferno. Cursed light flooded the streets. 

The gates were shut and as soon as they had the masses clawed and pounded begging for sanctuary. They’d have none. Their assaulting fear would be replaced by the onslaught of hate. 

Homes fed the flames that now licked the castle walls, insatiable, like a beast at its prey. All was bathed in heat and light. Screams gave way to the roar of war.

Far away the lord glowered at the sight of his glowing house. He raised his sword with an holy word and a radiance within rivaled the barbarian brood.

1-31-22 - Prompt: Fern

“Hmm,” came Jane’s exasperated harumph, “The weeds just won’t stop. It seems our soil is best for the menace, while my flowers just cant seem to get a leg up.”

At the silence, Jane peeled her eyes away from the large sliding door that opened to the back yard and to her husband across the table. He was lost to the sports section of the Harold Harold, The Town of Harold’s newspaper. It was a terribly named wonder founded by the third generation of the town’s founding family of the same name. Regardless of the lack in creatively naming, the Harolds were very captivating writers. The newspaper was so popular that their influence spread to the whole region. So it was with some understanding, that Jane had lost her husband’s attention.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, what time did you want to do that?” Steve answered.

“Steve,” Jane said again with a loss of some patience.

“Yeah,” he said affirmingly, “that’s great.

“Steve!” and her voice took that particular tone that snapped Steve’s attention away from anything.

“Oh, uh, sorry sweetie. Tommy Harold got me swept up in his take on the Wonders game.”

“Didn’t you watch it?” Jane asked not understanding his need to relive the game he’d just spent last evening watching.

“Yeah, but Tommy brought up a great point about how the team’s gonna have a hard time getting through the playoffs if they can’t keep focus. He says if Jackson can’t keep personal things at home, then how can he lead, and that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“If it’s what you were thinking then why do you need to read it?” Jane knew once she asked it she’d regret it as Steve would go on if she gave him leave, so quickly she said, “Never mind, I was talking about the weeds. I think we need to try something different. Could you run to the store after work today and pick up some weed killer?”

“I thought you didn’t want to use those?” Steve knew Jane hated using chemicals, “How about, after we’re bot done with work we grab some dinner and swing by Joe’s Joe and have a date-night-slash-researching session and look into some alternative solutions. It might just be that we need to reconsider what we’re growing.”

2-1-22 - Prompt: Dry

Captain Reginald P. Wallace gazed at the splintered skeleton of The Pursuit, buried in sand, pummeled by waves crashing against the atoll. He’d sat for hours after waking in the bright southwest Pacific sunlight watching stem and stern, mast and sail slowly rise and fall with the tides.

Drifting at the mercy of the wind and currents for days uncountable brought him to the shallow volcanic ring, desolate, barely breaking the surface of the sea. Nothing grew and he despaired. He’d been without water for a day and a half before he woke on the beach, and now he couldn’t see how he’d last much longer.

The bones shifted. His face ached in the sun. his lips began to crack and split from salty winds. It took all of his effort to refuse wetting them with what little saliva he had left. A cruel irony of the sea was how one could most easily die of thirst. The ocean mocked in reply.

The man lost all pride. What was a captain here? he asked himself, Nothing but a corpse to fill the sand. He looked up at the sun as it began its descent and he blinked away the light. Nothing to look at save the remnants of his pomp. The waves creaked and snapped the wood.

A wave broke. Another piece of his ship tumbled. It was round and bulbous and his despair nearly stole recognition from his eyes, but he could not deny the simple beauty of the barrel. His eyes widened.

Oranges.

2-2-22 - Prompt: Reckless

At uncountable RPMs the plastic wheels whirred and squeaked down the side of Raggleman’s Hill. The wagon was yellow and sported bright blue stripes that flowed between peels of paint and rusty splotches from delicate letters. Flash it read. It was the fastest wagon in Three-towns, or at least it would be soon.

It was a simple race. The neighborhood boys had started getting together three years earlier. Then it was all about fun. Now, it was a time-honored tradition and had grown to be eleven teams all in search of the Gilded Wheel. Bugleton had produced four teams this year. Bruce had brought five. Turf, the hosts and creators of The Three-Town Dash, only had two.

The race took place in four parts, and each team needed to have four drivers. Russell, Pip, Lolly, and Dwayne were an unstoppable force, but it made sense, they had pedigree. Russell’s older brother was none other than Running Ricky, the King of the Climb. That would have been enough, but they brought on Lolly and Pip, twin sisters of Zig-Zag, the same kid that turned the barnyard bend in less than forty-five seconds. He always kept the wagon tight, and he was their coach. They rolled from Turf, to Turf, and all around Turf. Simply put, they’re the best.

That’s why Jeffery needed the right crew, the right coach, and the right wagon. Now he had the wagon. Flash would live up to its name.

2-3-22 - Prompt: Pounce

Mitten’s kittens were a raucous brood. Tiger always instigated, Bon Bon was rough and tumble, Spot was always bored with everything, Sheila egged them on, but Jeff just wanted to learn. His nose was always in a book. Jeff couldn’t read, but he sure did try. He gathered what information he could from the pictures.

One day, Spot was staring, as he always did around midday, out the window. It was the regular routine. The mailman came around eleven, Boxer and his man would walk past with many woofs, howls, and barks around eleven thirty and Spot would laugh and roll his eyes, then a group of women would run past in the street as cars would honk at them to get onto the sidewalk around noon.

“Tiger,” Spot began in his drab tone, “she’ll be here soon.”

Tiger was up on the back of the sofa before he even finished. “How do you know?”

“Jeff said she’d be here after noon. The ladies just ran by which means she’ll be here any time now. Goodness, Tiger, it’s not complicated.”

“Jeff!” mewed Tiger, “Jeff! Where is he?”

“He’s on the couch, right behind you,” Sheila said with disdain and a roll of her eyes licking her paw on the chair across the family room.

“Jeff!” Tiger continued looking at his brother on the cushion below.

“Huh?” replied Jeff, blinking away his focus, “did you say something?”

‘Uh, yeah,” said Tiger exasperatedly, “are you sure she’ll be here after noon?”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard Susan say. She ordered it on Monday and when she checked where the package was she said it would arrive today after noon.”

“Ok, good,” purred Tiger contentedly, and he proceeded to look out the window alongside Spot for the next hour. That’s why they didn’t see her coming.

In the dark folds of the thick blackout curtains Bon Bon watched, waiting for the right moment. For all her restlessness she could be patient. Pouncing was fun in general, but especially when they least expected it. She’d bide her time.