Elisha looked down from his platform. Seventy feet below him workers using hoists and a rope and pulley system started to raise heavy equipment to his level. It was hazardous work, because if the rope broke or the laborer lost hold of the rope, the whole yard was in danger of being crushed by heavy falling objects.
He ordered his helper to cut the rope that held the platform aloft. The spring enabled the metal prongs which brought the platform to halt.
He turned to his helper and said: “I’ll call it an elevator.”
That night in the summer of 1963 was especially hot in Detroit. That didn’t matter for a thirteen year old boy. My dad had purchased tickets in the center field bleachers for two dollars each. Tonight was going to be magic. It was the Tigers vs. the New York Yankees. Al Kaline, Rocky Cocovito, and Norm Cash for the Tigers against Whitey Ford, Stan Williams and Yogi Berra for the Yankees.
I sat there for the entire nine innings with my baseball glove on ready for what I was sure to be a home run ball.
He retired from the military financially broke. Some thought his drinking was the cause of his poverty. Some thought it was because he was taken advantage of by his friends. Writing his autobiography was the only way to support his family. He wrote outdoors in his distinctive script with his woolen scull cap to keep him warm. Neighbors and enslaved laborers helped him build this ugly log cabin. Julia did her best to decorate the place. Despite all their efforts the little house looked so unattractive that they called it hardscrabble.
Always a desire to get ahead. That’s why he joined this company. Always looking to be promoted to the next level. Entry level position, mid level, senior management that was his career path. And he was on a fast track to become a C level executive. His key to success: “Be Organized.”
As he prepared for his staff meeting he went through his checklist:
Laptop up and running…check
Speaker Phone On…check
Julie, the first on the ZOOM call, said to Mr. Organized Man, “Hey Boss, you conducting the meeting in your underwear.?
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, where the challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words of less using the picture prompt below.
Photo Prompt Credit ==== Roger Bullet
Spring came early that year. He had not planned on early warm temperatures. Climate change was spoiling his plan. The snowplow had covered the black plastic sealed shoe less body in over six feet of snow three days ago.
His internet searches gave him an estimate of two weeks before the under staffed snow removal teams would clear enough for the body to be visible to anyone passing by. Plenty of time to escape.
The snowplow driver had one more street to plow before his shift was over when he heard someone shout, “Raise the damn plow.”
Their relationship fell apart after three months in the wilderness. She missed the city life. He loved nature and hated the hustle and bustle of the city. The final fight was nasty. More violent than he expected. She put up quite a fight. When she left the city she told her friends she would never return. She was correct.
The brackish waters off the Kenai Fjords in remote Alaska provided the perfect place to dispose of her body.
He watched the final bubbles from her last breaths disappear beneath the water. Her replacement would be difficult to find. But not impossible. He had work to begin his search.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneer’s. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture prompt below.
He avoided most of the other anniversaries. After ten years things started aging. The heroes of high school footfall games returned from wars damaged both physically and mentally. Their minds numbed by what they had witnessed. The destruction of an entire country happened before their glazed eyes. For the vulnerable, and there were many, their sanity ended there.
Scanning the gymnasium he could recognize one or two. They had started to crumble. Some were bent over, a shell of their former self. Others folded into their wheelchairs. His former heroes lay like Roman ruins.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
I remember watching my grandfather squatting in front of the black and white television in his bid overalls ranting at all the political candidates .
Together with his brothers they dug a basement and then moved his home over it. My Uncle Luther ran his tractor into the basement wall.
I followed behind him and his tractor picking up rocks so the field could be planted next season. He couldn’t afford the cost of burying of any family member. I heard stories of family members being buried under those rocks.
I’m still superstitious about homes build with rocks.