Into the Storm

        The wooden planks bucked under her feet as the cold spray whipped across her face. She ran her tongue over her lips to catch the salty drops that puckered her tongue with the familiar taste of the sea. Her bare toes gripped the painted deck and the sodden rigging bit into her palm as she rose and fell with the swelling waves.
        She chanced a glance back over her shoulder. The sun still shone behind her, but it was weak, watery light in the face of the gale ahead. The sky was black and it met the water at the far horizon in an almost imperceptible, glittering line.
        The waves, purple, green, blue, and black at turns, buffeted the small sailboat and she ducked reflexively as the boom crashed over, timed almost perfectly to a staccato burst of thunder. She grinned as the wind tore at her hair and clothes and steered into the storm.

The Cleansing

Another Wednesday appears, another Friday Fictioneers. It may sound confusing, but please don’t fret, the days of the week haven’t changed just yet. With Rochelle at the helm of our little written ship, giving us 100 words to twist and flip, we write our little tales inspired by photos such as this–so carefully chosen we can’t possibly miss.

        “It looks so peaceful,” Kal said regretfully.
        The tall, lush grass was damp with the morning dew and it clung to their robes. The Master’s white beard trembled in the morning breeze as he regarded the clotted-cream clouds fiercely; one white eye seemed to pierce through the rolling mist. Ropy veins crawled like blue worms under the skin on the Master’s thin hands as he held them out over the valley. Kal watched the clouds move steadily, their underbellies beginning to darken.
        “The cleansing,” the Master said quietly.
        Kal turned his head, wishing there was another way.