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I think I have to take a vow to write something upbeat, active, and forward-looking. Just to give my style some exercise. I've been looking back to the lost since before I had anything to lose.
Here's another 1k tale. (I shouldn't say the 200 words thing is unverifiable –- it's easy to verify. I just imagined that it must vary among applications.)
* * * * * *
Miracle Escape Pilot Comes Home
Meteors showering onto the house woke her. As she struggled up from sleep's void, the meteors shrank to fists of hail pounding holes in the shake roof. She rubbed her face on the pillow, and the hail became pea-sized. She opened her eyes into darkness, and lay listening to the rain.
The little rental cottage trembled under the storm. She thought about rogue waves, logs caber-tossed through the front windows. She tried to be uneasy; instead she felt quietly amused.
The storm was loud, though. She got up and, perversely, started the washing machine. The old front-loader's glass dish rattled in its door. Inside and outside were one sloshing din.
She closed her eyes. Tried to feel the tremor of machinery surrounding her. To contract the tiny cottage until it fit her space-cramped senses.
A lurch, a sleeper's stumble. She opened her eyes to wood and damp air, no burning womb of white metal. Falling, she'd only thought how strange it was that coming home would kill her.
She fixed herself a cup of tea. "It's still falling." she told the washing machine. She tasted a crystal of salt from the table. There was a newspaper rolled up next to the trash. She knew what it said without looking. Micrometeor Fells Doomed Mission. Miracle Escape Pilot Comes Home.
"Eventually." she said.
Here's another 1k tale. (I shouldn't say the 200 words thing is unverifiable –- it's easy to verify. I just imagined that it must vary among applications.)
* * * * * *
Miracle Escape Pilot Comes Home
Meteors showering onto the house woke her. As she struggled up from sleep's void, the meteors shrank to fists of hail pounding holes in the shake roof. She rubbed her face on the pillow, and the hail became pea-sized. She opened her eyes into darkness, and lay listening to the rain.
The little rental cottage trembled under the storm. She thought about rogue waves, logs caber-tossed through the front windows. She tried to be uneasy; instead she felt quietly amused.
The storm was loud, though. She got up and, perversely, started the washing machine. The old front-loader's glass dish rattled in its door. Inside and outside were one sloshing din.
She closed her eyes. Tried to feel the tremor of machinery surrounding her. To contract the tiny cottage until it fit her space-cramped senses.
A lurch, a sleeper's stumble. She opened her eyes to wood and damp air, no burning womb of white metal. Falling, she'd only thought how strange it was that coming home would kill her.
She fixed herself a cup of tea. "It's still falling." she told the washing machine. She tasted a crystal of salt from the table. There was a newspaper rolled up next to the trash. She knew what it said without looking. Micrometeor Fells Doomed Mission. Miracle Escape Pilot Comes Home.
"Eventually." she said.
