The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
It’s Pretty Here, Isn’t It?
by Rie Sheridan Rose
Sometimes, I come down here to the remains of the dock and look out over the endless sea and remember how things used to be. You’d never know it to look at it now, but this island was once a humming hub of activity.
There was a boardwalk here, in the Before Times—that is what the kids are still calling it these days, isn’t it—full of lights and sounds…people playing the games, trying to win a silly stuffed dog. Usually losing. Spending all their pocket change for one more throw, or roll, or toss.
The ferris wheel was right over there, and you could see for miles from the top of it. The young men would bribe the operator to stop their car at the top of the wheel, and the girls would pretend not to know they’d done it. Of course, since they all did it, a peck or two on the cheek was the most they had time for.
One end of the boardwalk had a Laffy Taffy stand, and the other had a Hot Dog place. I can still smell them some nights. They say smells are linked to memories, but sometimes I think it is the other way around…
This was our world. We loved it here. So many people, so much to do and see. A feast for all the senses.
And then the rains came.
The sky opened up and didn’t stop for twelve days. People started joking about a second flood on day four. By day eight, there wasn’t anyone left to joke. The buildings, the boardwalk, the beautiful people, it all washed away…
All that is left are these few broken teeth of wood where the pilings were, and me. I couldn’t leave, you see—water, water everywhere, and not a thing to drink. I don’t know why you’ve come, but I am awfully glad you did. The sun hasn’t quite broken the horizon, so I can still get us back to my coffin. Here I was, going to face the dawn—but you’ve given this old vampire a second chance!
Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
Overheard in Hell:
Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…
…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.