The death of Jesse

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Image : Pixabay

 

Others are up ahead, a clump of black silhouettes, paled by a haze of sea spray.

I check my instinct to call Jesse to heel. Stupid dog’s too far away, closer to them than me. If I call they’ll see me.

There was a storm last night. Idiot! I stumbled from the shack just as the cold sun was lifting over the bay, only half awake, unprepared. If only I’d made coffee, got the stove going, sparked some brain cells to life. But the wood store was empty, the coffee jar too.

I watch Jesse for one second, two, as he jogs towards the hunched figures, his tail swinging. Only now do I notice wreckage littering the sands – a plastic bottle, half full of  something blue (shampoo? mouthwash?): sodden paper: a splash of red cloth, bright as spilt paint. The others will have been out all night scavenging for what’s left of the boat’s crew.

One last glimpse of golden fur and I turn back, walking fast, forcing myself not to run, not wanting to draw their attention. I sink my hands deep in my pockets, feel the bag I’d brought along to collect Jesse’s morning mess – a hangover of more civilised times.

Stumbling over a silver belt buckle, a boot with no laces, I hear Jesse bark, growl, yelp.

Poor Jesse. I bite my lip hard, blink away salt water.

I determine to find more coffee.


Not sure if it’s the hunched, hooded figure in the foreground that turned my thoughts to the dark side, or just the fact that I’m a miserabilist.  What do you think of when you see this picture? Is it more cheerful than the way my tale went?

As the Valentine’s Day rush of roses and desperate paramours is upon me, I find myself absent from the screen for a few days. So here’s a tale I penned a year ago.

Apologies to all who comment in the meantime – I shall reply once the madness is over.

 

Friday Fictioneers: Birds sing at the end of the world

copyright-Rich Voza

copyright-Rich Voza

 


 

 

We need fuel, or I’d avoid the airport entirely. There’s still some left in the support vehicles – for now.

There’s aviation fuel too, but it went badly for the last tribe who syphoned it. The explosion was so large, it woke the twins. All those tears.

It’s the feeling of suspension that’s eerie, all the planes waiting to taxi. It’s as if the passengers just nipped off for a pint and will return any minute, sun cream packed, ready for two weeks on the beach.

What happened to them all?

At least we can hear the birds sing now.

 


 

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the picture prompt and write 100 words to go along with it. See here for full Ts and Cs.