Never mind the mildew and dirt, the echoes in corridors of sad stories they knew.
There’ll be roof over heads and a shelter for those who lost all yet pulled through.
We will clean it all up. Make a home for these kids. It’ll do.
For Three Line Tales, Week 137
He huddled at the cupola and waited.
Sirens blared and klaxon warnings bleated in time with the flash of red strobe lights and a monotone woman’s voice repeating: “Evacuate! Evacuate!”
He shook his head at the cluelessness of programmers. Who chose this particular word for the code-red recordings?
Evacuate to where?
The wall behind him warped and heaved, and it was as if the very apparatus was gasping for air. He slowed his own breath and tuned out the scream of bending metal and the meaning of the accelerated frequency of the voice commands.
He glued his eyes to the view. Finally.
His finger traced the line of green against blue and traveled inland to the approximate spec that was Bamboi.
Was anyone home looking up? They’d been so proud. The first of their own at the space-station, and … for at least another moment, the last astronaut alive.
For the What Pegman Saw Challenge: Bamboi, Ghana
Photo: Ofir Asif
Make no case
For shells
That harm,
When peace reaches
Exponentially
Farther.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Shell
“It’s the one thing I want.”
His siblings’ squabbling over their late mother’s items woke memories he preferred to not revisit. He wondered if not leaving a will was her way to continue their jockeying for her perceived affections even after she was gone.
Linda fixed her suspicious gaze on him. “Why?”
He shrugged to feign indifference. “I find the carvings interesting, and,” he pointed at his black clothing, “it’s kind of Goth.”
He wasn’t going to tell them about the hidden compartments. Or their contents. Grandpa had shown him. “Black sheep need help, Son. In case of hard times.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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