Time Stands Still

This post is submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction.

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© Eric Wicklund

John entered the forest at precisely 11:17 a.m. on August 2, 2016. He knew this by double tapping on his new fitbit bracelet. He tapped again and was informed he had taken 1,257 steps so far this morning. He planned this walk to reach his goal of 10,000.

After an hour on the trail he noticed an interesting looking tree. The large branches formed what looked like an eye socket with a missing eyeball in the center.

Climbing in he was amazed at how large the enclosure was. The eye socket he was now standing in was huge. He went to the edge of the socket and stood up and still did not reach the top of the arch.

Looking out he saw a scene like something out of Jurassic Park. Hugh animals of all descriptions ranged the landscape as far as he could see. Sounds of animal welfare, sounds so loud they made him fear for his life.

He felt the need to return to the trail and quickly. Somewhere were everything made sense.

Raising his left arm to check his progress in reaching his step goal his fitbit indicated the date was December 19, 2021 and his step counter read 103,254,615 steps.

Ivy League School

This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

Brian had always dreamed of going to an Ivy League school. He loved books. His mom used to tell her friends that when he was young he had read a particular story so many times that he could put the book upside down on his knees and could read it because he had it memorized.

He had to settle for a land grant state college because his grades did not meet the level of acceptance for an Ivy League school. But then just two years after graduation an opportunity came up at Harvard and he was accepted after a series of interviews that lasted almost two full days.

He, as expected, excelled at his position. He continued his career with advancement after advancement until he reached the position he held today. He felt satisfied and immensely thankful for what this great university had provided him. He looked down the hall and saw some of his staff members busy at work. The majority of his staff were busy outside this time of day.

As he left his office he looked back at the name plate on his door. He felt proud. “Brian Holiday” maintenance supervisor. He loved his work.

 

 

A Good Room

This post submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction.

188-01-january-1st-2017It was probably the best room she had spent the night in a long time. At least she would have a warm room with a real bed and some palatable food to keep her nourished.

Just graduating from high school had been an achievement. After that the boys had started to take advantage of her mental condition. She wasn’t a prize for them just an easy notch on their belt of manhood.

Booze became her best friend. A friend she needed daily. The buzz made the boys attention tolerable. Her drab apartment, in the worst part of town, became a hangout for the tough and not so tough hoods. An apartment where she rented a refrigerator, the only furniture a couch that one of the boys had found at the side of the road and had made a present of it to her, torn down cardboard boxes used as her bed, a toilet that overflowed constantly the water actually freezing on the floor in the winter.

Her address was well know at the local police station. She knew some of the officers by their first name they had responded so often to her apartment.

She wonders if her police friends will miss her.

Desert Storm

 

My short story, below the picture prompt below, is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

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He heard the soft “puff” as the M4 rifle launched its grapnel. He knew then that the  combat engineers were beginning their mission.

The desert sand was hot even in the dark of the night. He knew he did not have much time before he lost consciousness. He felt nothing below his knees. His legs were in all probability gone. He knew he had stepped on a land mine. A quick look to his left revealed his buddy Hector or at least what remained of Hector.

“More to the right”  he shouted to his invisible fellow soldiers. He heard the grapnel hit behind his head and could see the trailing cable begin its journey back.  They had tried to talk him out of performing such a suicide mission. But he was in command and they would follow. The grappling hook dragged backwards was used to detonate trip-wire fused land mines. It was 99 per cent effective.

 

 

It’s Over There

This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

 

“I can’t find my cell phone.”

“Where to you last use it?” Danny asked.

“I was face timing with Betty last while I was on my nightly walk around the bay. I think that was the last time I used it. We talked for a long time about “girl things”.

Sunday Photo FictionDanny just hated hearing those words. “Girl things” just meant they were talking about him. “Jeeze Louise Carole, we just purchased these new iPhones last week. You just had to have the new 6 Plus and now you have lost the damn thing. I know, let’s use the “find my iPhone feature” on your laptop.”

Carole, firing up her laptop and tapping the find my app feature, shouted “I’ve found it!”

“Great”, replied Danny now relived he would not have to spend mucho bucks to replace the damn thing,”where is it?”

“Somewhere over there” Carole laughed, pointing toward the container ships docked at the bay.

 

 

 

Close Call

This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction.160-06-june-12th-2016

I knew she was in trouble. The sheets were sweat-soaked; her forehead was clammy and her face felt hot to my touch. She was not moving.

We kept the glucose tester near the bed stand as we did every night for the past few years. I knew how to use it. Her sugar level was 42. Not good. Not good at all. I knew the range by heart. She was almost in a diabetic coma.

The digital clock informed me the time was 4:12 a.m. Even at this hour I was aware to awaken her slowly from her unconsciousness.

With dull eyes she looked at the ceiling. “There are three of them. They are here for me.” She started to scream. Very loudly she screamed while pointing at the ceiling light. “Help me.”

In my near hysteric state I still remember some basic things we had practiced for such an event. The orange juice; get the damn orange juice and make her drink some. And candy bars. Milky ways! Her favorite.

Taking the drink she seemed to recognize me.

I checked her sugar level again and it was up to 56. It was working!

 

 

The Walking Stick

This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

He had attended the hiking course just last week. It was part of his plan to get more active this year. The instructor had supplied maps of some nearby trails. Along with the maps he was told he should buy a compass, a walking stick, and a small light backpack.159-06-june-5th-2016

He had dressed warmly for his early morning walk. It was still quite cold when he began his walk at around 8 a.m. The rolling hills around this part of the state were still wet from some overnight rain showers.

He slipped his new backpack on which contained a small tube of insect repellant, some lip balm, and breakfast bars. He slipped the leather band on his brand new walking stick around his wrist.

He found the first trail making, which was a blue painted arrow on a tree after about a half mile.

For the next forty-five minutes the ground covering became very thick and even using his new walking stick he still stumble a few times. Twenty minutes later in deep brush and not ever finding another trail marking he admitted to himself he was in deep trouble.

Turing around he pushed his walking stick in the ground and he felt it hit something that felt unusual. Looking down he saw that his walking stick had gone right through the right eye socket of a half buried skull.