Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 21
This week's photo was taken by an online friend of mine, Stuart Hancock while he was travelling in America. It shows legs of the pier on Pismo Beach, California. I asked him if I could use it because it is begging to be written for. So many tales are glimpsed between those posts. What will yours be?
I ummed and arhhed over which tale to tell as several vied for position, although I felt a few were a bit cliche or darker than I fancied going. So this is what got written.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Tied vs Tide.
The sloshing sound and rocking motion woke her.
Her eyes focused on the slats of wood far above her head. She kicked her feet and heard splashing; they were underwater. She put them down and felt mud and seaweed debris squelch between her toes. She tried to raise her arms to balance but found them tied to one of the pier posts. Damn! She’d forgotten about that.
Veronica awkwardly tried to stand, but couldn’t get up to full height, the rope tied round her wrists restricting the ability to do so. She could only move the rope up the post a little. Bent over with legs straight, the water had reached her thighs; the tide was coming in.
She look back at the beach, but it was wet and windy; there was no-one in sight.
She looked at the rope. It was orange poly rope: extra strong, extra tough, not easy to break. It occurred to her that if she had been able to tie herself up, surely she would be able to untie herself. Then she smiled; ever the perfectionist with attention to detail. She’d practiced that knot for months, tying it with her teeth, but never quite foolish enough to tie both hands in – not until last night.
She had no simple answer to this. She considered whether chewing through it was possible. Looking round again at the deserted beach and promenade, there wasn’t going to be any other option.
Veronica gnawed at it, kneeling in the water to keep her balance as the current of the incoming tide pushed against her. Her mouth was dry and salt water kept splashing up, making her need to spit.
After a while she stopped, barely having made a dent in one of the winds of rope – there were three to get through. She turned facing the beach and started to call out, in the hope that someone might hear her, but with the whistle of the wind rushing round the underside of the pier, the sound was carried out to sea; it was hopeless.
What had she been thinking? Not good things, clearly. Aided by two bottles of vodka she’d acted out a fantasy she’d had for a while. Although, as was always the case, it turned out the reality wasn’t going to go as smoothly as the fantasy: She hadn’t drowned in her sleep, and she hadn’t been rescued by anyone in shining armour - and scanning the still deserted beach she wasn’t going to be either.
The water was up round her waist now. She wrestled with the rope, moving it further up the pole, and continued to chew on it. It was the only chance she had. Would the same courage it took to get into this situation, now get her out? Was she strong enough to save herself?
I ummed and arhhed over which tale to tell as several vied for position, although I felt a few were a bit cliche or darker than I fancied going. So this is what got written.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Tied vs Tide.
The sloshing sound and rocking motion woke her.
Her eyes focused on the slats of wood far above her head. She kicked her feet and heard splashing; they were underwater. She put them down and felt mud and seaweed debris squelch between her toes. She tried to raise her arms to balance but found them tied to one of the pier posts. Damn! She’d forgotten about that.
Veronica awkwardly tried to stand, but couldn’t get up to full height, the rope tied round her wrists restricting the ability to do so. She could only move the rope up the post a little. Bent over with legs straight, the water had reached her thighs; the tide was coming in.
She look back at the beach, but it was wet and windy; there was no-one in sight.
She looked at the rope. It was orange poly rope: extra strong, extra tough, not easy to break. It occurred to her that if she had been able to tie herself up, surely she would be able to untie herself. Then she smiled; ever the perfectionist with attention to detail. She’d practiced that knot for months, tying it with her teeth, but never quite foolish enough to tie both hands in – not until last night.
She had no simple answer to this. She considered whether chewing through it was possible. Looking round again at the deserted beach and promenade, there wasn’t going to be any other option.
Veronica gnawed at it, kneeling in the water to keep her balance as the current of the incoming tide pushed against her. Her mouth was dry and salt water kept splashing up, making her need to spit.
After a while she stopped, barely having made a dent in one of the winds of rope – there were three to get through. She turned facing the beach and started to call out, in the hope that someone might hear her, but with the whistle of the wind rushing round the underside of the pier, the sound was carried out to sea; it was hopeless.
What had she been thinking? Not good things, clearly. Aided by two bottles of vodka she’d acted out a fantasy she’d had for a while. Although, as was always the case, it turned out the reality wasn’t going to go as smoothly as the fantasy: She hadn’t drowned in her sleep, and she hadn’t been rescued by anyone in shining armour - and scanning the still deserted beach she wasn’t going to be either.
The water was up round her waist now. She wrestled with the rope, moving it further up the pole, and continued to chew on it. It was the only chance she had. Would the same courage it took to get into this situation, now get her out? Was she strong enough to save herself?
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