Thank goodness. I feel like this:
Perhaps it’s a consequence of it being the first full week back into the ‘norm’; the routine of early (pitch-dark) mornings, running around like a fly with an azure behind all day, and falling into a grateful stupor at night – well, once I’m finished reading ‘just another chapter!’ of course.
Or maybe I’m just getting old. That could be it, too.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad to see Friday’s smiling face. I’m also glad to have completed another ‘Flash! Friday’ challenge – I’ve posted my story below, just in case you’d like to throw your eye over it. It’s not the best piece of flash fiction in the world, nor the most original, but I don’t know. There’s something about it that I like. I have a soft spot for time travel stories at the best of times, and I could think of worse places to be stuck than early twentieth-century America, so in a way I’m a little jealous of my characters.
And, when you think about it, isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
So – here’s how it works. Every week, the lovely people at Flash! Friday select a prompt image, and also a prompt word, or words. This week the prompt words were ‘Time Travel’, and the image was this:
And here’s my wee story:
End of the Road
‘Wait. I don’t …’ The handheld panel illuminated Palmer’s frowning face. ‘Just a second.’
‘Haven’t got a second,’ I said, assessing our new surroundings. Vehicle, of sorts; windows grubby, warped. Unfiltered sunshine. Early twentieth? Maybe? How could we be so far off, again? As Palmer scanned her screen, I glanced behind. Wow. A tunnel carved through a giant tree spanned the road – it must have been our vector. Huh. Organic, again… The jalopy groaned and shuddered, knocking me out of my thoughts. I turned back around, trying to focus.
‘C’mon, Palmer,’ I muttered. ‘Quickly, before we’re seen.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Hang on.’ Palmer swiped the screen, decisively. She pressed ‘Engage.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I side-mouthed, trying to stay calm.
‘No way,’ she breathed. ‘Of course. Organic vectors. Missing targets by centuries…’
‘It’s the Network. The Timeshift itself.’ She swallowed, hard. ‘It’s collapsing.’
‘What?’ The car swerved.
‘How’s your twentieth-century patois?’ she grinned, sadly. ‘We’re going to be here a while.’
And, with that, I wish you a happy Friday and a peaceful, restful weekend. Read lots, write lots, and laugh as often as you can.