Kreative Kue 43, issued on this site last week, asked for submissions based on a photograph showing a long, straight road.
John W Howell, who blogs at Fiction Favorites, took a flyer at this one:
“So tell me again why we are following this road so close to the ground.”
“Like I said the navigation and communication radios are not working.”
“I understand that I just wonder why we are down here so low.”
“It’s like this. We can’t communicate with anyone and we have no idea where we are so we are following this road to the nearest town, and we’ll take a fix and figure a way home.”
“Why so low?”
“See those clouds above us. With no radios, we can’t get clearance to fly on instruments and go up through the clouds to clear air. With no clearance, we are sitting ducks for some plane who has clearance. The ceiling is getting lower by the minute. Also following this road will give us a better chance of not hitting any electrical wires or towers. There are none in the middle of the street.”
“How about those over the road?”
“A real worry but out in the country pretty rare. Keep your eyes peeled. I have throttled back to a pretty safe speed.”
“I can hardly see out the front.”
“I know looks like we are getting some rain.”
“I’m really worried.”
“Just keep looking.”
“There’s a dark spot up ahead.”
“I see it. Damn, it’s a stand of trees. We gotta climb, or we’ll take the wings off.”
“Damn. Can we what?”
“I’m trying. Whoa, hear that? We just skimmed the tops of those trees. We’re okay now.”
“When we land I’m going to need to change.”
“Roger that Frank. Here have a mint.”
Michael, who blogs at Morpethroad, gives us a glimpse of life on the run.
The thing I remembered was the sound of dad singing ‘On the Road Again’ every morning as we set off always looking behind to see if anyone was following.
A life on the run was exciting, as I never knew where we might be from one day to the next.
We’d arrive in a town and dad would wander around looking to see where he might launch his next elaborate scam. He also had an exit strategy for every town we visited.
I was only seven when dad started all this. He and mum had separated and so I went with dad every second week and unbeknownst to neither mum nor I, dad was a con man and so often got away with it.
He’d put me into a room in the cheapest motel he could find and disappear for hours. Sometimes it was a matter of dad coming back in the wee small hours grabbing me sometimes bedding and all and then off in the car at break neck pace.
He loved the thrill of the whole scam he was running.
It didn’t matter what it was it was the adrenalin rush he got from it.
Then we’d lay low for a few days before he found temptation so great we’d be on the move again and Willie would be singing his song as we drove off to who knew where.
My effort is a short tale that seems to have lost its direction: “Lost? Who’s lost?“
Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; and either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at firstname.lastname@example.org before 6pm on Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated.
Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries, with links to your own blog or web site, next Monday.