Category: Visual

Flash: Human do the Stupid

Erin Penn

Image from Unsplash (lost track of the original source, sorry)

The sound came again, Trixie and he looked over, wondering what it was. Not a bull lowing across the way, nor a farmer running a combine or tractor. Something like when he lands a fish, only bigger. Jeb  checked his watch. Another five hours before he could go home, may as well look. Trixie kept close by his side … only occasionally sprinting a few steps to investigate a scent or movement … but circling back quickly, keeping the both of them safe like always, as they climbed the rise.

When Jeb topped the hill, the mid-day fog made more sense. The river wasn’t high, but the fog lay thick over its surface, something normal when after a day of sun and a cool air rolls in, or first thing in the morning when the water is cold, but the sun warms it. But this, at two when the sun is high and the air and water were both warm, made no sense, other than the sense of the fog rolling away from whatever is happening to the barn where they had been passing the day.

After scooting and sliding down the embankment to get closer, Jeb two-stepped over to the muddy edge of the creek.

Metal shone there. Flat, below the surface. It looked like it cross the entire water to the other bank.

He squatted down to examine it closer. Beside him Trixie whined, keeping somewhat back from the water. “Good girl,” he assured her. Dogs do the protect, humans do the stupid. Together they do the things.

He had done a lot of stupid growing up and his dogs got him back every time. Now Trixie had inherited the duty, keeping him company when he needed to stay away when the women-folk got their tempers up. Jeb touched his still puffy eye. While Trixie was part of the woman-folk in her own bitch way, she did a good protect against everyone but the woman-folk of their family.

Closing his bad eye, Jeb tried to figure out what the underwater thing might be. A net? An old car part? Maybe the crossbeam to a house dropped here by a tornado. Just looking wasn’t gonna cut it.

He reached his hand into the water.

(words 376; first published 11/22/2023)

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE MOMENT – Which way should I go – Sword & Sorcery Portal Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction, or Horror? Maybe a Mystery, Romance, or Thriller? A mashup of two or more? Let me know in comments. If you want, you can fanfic what happens next and make me pick it up at the next scene.

Flash: Selling Point

Erin Penn

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

“Huh.” A breath, hard and sharp, passed her lips, her eyes scrunched as though staring at a puzzle.

Me and the other two guys exchanged looks. “What is it this time?” I asked, weary.

“This is the advertising campaign you think will reach women?”

“It’s worked before.” Barry jumped in. Good man, taking the hit for us this time.

Our intern eyes hardened. “When.” Not a question, that single word, more like a sharp probe into a festering wound we needed draining.

“Recent?” Barry glanced around the table.

The gray-haired Trap shook his head. “Early nineties, that is thirty years ago. We’ve been using it ever since with a bit of refresh, new faces, clothes, hairstyles, but same theme.”

“Right.” She glared at the set of ads, and then looked at us with the same anger. “Look again, only with #metoo eyes.”

I shrugged, closing my eyes for a second, trying to put myself in a woman’s place. Getting ready to see whatever it is we have been missing. What our client has been missing with a loss of market share for a decade now.

Barry, being the youngest of our firm, did the flipped first. “Oh, fuck.”

I winced knowing it would be bad, then looked at it with the new mindset our college girl … our valued professional colleague … had been teaching us old men.

Oh, fuck indeed. I sighed, running a hand down my face. Another client needing a complete overhaul to reach 50% of today’s market share. Every single picture with a woman “buyer” has a man handing her the keys. I ground my teeth.

(words 268, first published 9/4/2022 – from a picture prompt for a Facebook writing group. Aim is about 50 words)

Flash: Old Flamer

Erin Penn

Image from freedigitalphotos.net

“Wind chases waves,
Rolling in the bay,
Thundercloud rumble at the play…

What next?” The poet bounced a pretentious old-fashion feather quill against his lips.

“Maybe, cleaning up your dinner plates.”

The white-haired old man startled, turning around at his candle-lit desk. “Girl, what’re you doing here? There’s a storm rolling in.”

“I’m here same as you, to keep the lantern lit.” Abigail reached around him, grabbing up three plates, a bowl, and two glasses.

“Damn it, you live on the mainland with that no-good mother of yours for a reason.” He grumbled, putting a lid on the dip ink. “Ain’t safe being out here. Not since Akar’s Bridge went.”

“If it ain’t safe for me, it ain’t safe you.” She adjusted the stack before heading to the staircase winding around the outside of the lighthouse interior, each floor within a circle supported against the staircase and the walls.

“It’s my job Abby and you know it.” Francis pushed himself up with his cane to follow her.

“Not since they stopped paying you a salary, grandpa, and you know that.” His smart-mouthed granddaughter dipped the last word in sarcasm and deep fried it. The saucy tone echoed up the metal walls.

He heard the clatter of dishes being added to the others in the sink. It’s been a few days since he bothered to handwash.

Ever since the landbridge to the shore got washed away in early 2020 dropping the old Flamer off the grid again, and the government stopped paying him anything but Social Security shortly thereafter claiming the building no longer qualified as a historic landmark, he had to be careful with the diesel to keep the generator going. No electric for his personal needs, only what was needed to keep the beacon lit.

And washing dishes in cold water set off his arthritis.

“Don’t care.” He panted slightly, stepping off the stairs onto the kitchen level. “Our family been keeping this beacon lit, come hell or highwater, for three generations.”

“What am I, chopped liver?“ His granddaughter cocked her hip to the side and placed a fist on it, shaking a finger at him. “It’s five generations and don’t you forget it old man.”

He sighed, closing his worn eyes a moment. “Abby, don’t follow an old man into his foolishness. Your daddy needs be the last of us to die out on this rock.” Crossing the metal disk doubling as a floor, he used his cane to maintain his balance as it wobbled because the incoming storm pounded the outside of the isolated building.

“Fine, then come with me to the mainland, we got a few more minutes to pull it off in the dingy.” The nineteen-year-old kept up her hard stare, so like his Abby, the one she was named after. When he said nothing further. “That’s what I thought.” She turned around and started the water running. “I topped off the generator before climbing up. You go check the lines for kinks while I get the dishes done before the light goes bad.”

“Abby.” Francis paused at the stair’s landing.

She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Thank you, but this has to be the last time. Old Flamer is holding on to the rocks with fingernails.”

“Only if it the last time for you grandpa.” She patted the wall over the sink. “I think Old Flamer has one last nor-easter in him, but it’s time to let go after that. Deal?”

Francis looked up and down the steel steps, the rusty walls that had been his home forever. Where he had grown, buried his parents and his son, laughed with his wife, and chased his grandchildren. Not responding, he headed up the wall playing attention to the wires powering the lantern.

(words 627; first published 11/22/2023)

Flash: Haeata

Erin Penn

Image by Jason Briscoe on Unsplash

One last kick sends the sea creature back to memory as sun rose above the horizon with dawn’s promise. Dropping to her knees in the wet sand, Anahera says a small “Yay.” between pants. Only six more days before the veil finishes regrowing.

She wishes the “heroes” who dragged the battle to their shore remained to help fix the damage, staying to protect the village during the repairs. Three of their oldest sacrificed their lives, sealing the rift shortly after the braggards swaggered away “victorious”. Since then all those of fighting age spent every twilight battling the smaller creatures able to sneak between the healing spaces stitched together by the grandmothers and grandfathers.

Taika grins at Waimarie as she slathers lotion across his chest where one of the kaurehe creased four claws. Many a woman will dance for him when this is over, but the healer brave enough to wait beside the combatants during battles seemed to have already won his heart.

Anahera wonders how many men will dance for her.

Tipene and Wiremu lean against each other.

They won’t dance for her. Two warriors in the same bed is exciting but not restful, and while they had played together well during this crisis, Anahera needed someone steadier than the brothers.

No ones injuries look serious in the growing light. With only four left in fighting shape, that is good. Anahera hoped Tama is able to return with them at sunset. Older, he has a cunning and ruthlessness the younger warriors were only learning now.

Pushing herself up, Anahera orders, “Naps, then training tent.” The others groan but rise in the soft sand. Taika plays up his injury, leaning on Waimarie, as they walk back to the nearby huts and houses.

(words 291; first published 11/22/2023 – Haeata means “dawn” in Maori; Kaurehe means “monster”)

Flash: Good Roof

Erin Penn

Image by Ron Whitaker on Unsplash

The roof slanted impossibly up, shingled in rich golden oak covered by tar and soot from thousands fireplaces around the city. Whoever crafted the roof did a bang-up swell job, all Jenkin-Junior. I can tell by how well the edge is holding up with me clinging by my fingernails.

(words 49; first published 11/20/2023 – created from a FaceBook writer’s group prompt where the aim is 50 words)