D. A. Ratliff – The Boat

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The Boat

By D. A. Ratliff

“Boys, come help me.”

Olivia Carter raised the hatch on her SUV and began to collect the bags of groceries from the back. Her sons, Micah and Elias, popped out of the kitchen door into the garage. Eli lowered the garage door to block the driving rain spilling out of the first strong feeder band from Hurricane Anna.

Grabbing the bags from her, Micah grinned. “Geez, Mom, did you leave any food for anyone else?”

“No one else has kids like you two that eat so much. Luckily, the store still had lots of food and water left.”

He nodded. “I guess since the storm is only going to pass by just off the coast, no one panicked except us.”

“Funny boy. It’s the beginning of hurricane season, might as well stock up now.”

She and Eli followed Micah into the kitchen with the other bags. As she put the food into the storage bins to keep it dry, the boys brought in the water she had bought.

“Mom, there’s enough food and water here for the neighborhood.” Eli grimaced as he and his brother carried two cases of water each into the kitchen. “There are eight more cases out there.”

“That’s the idea. Your dad knows a lot of people don’t realize how long power could be off. He wants to be sure we can help them. Even the fire station might need water.”

Micah ripped open a box of granola bars and took a couple out. “We got all the shutters closed, and all the outside stuff in the shed, and the grill is on the lanai. Drained a few feet of water from the pool and shut off the pump. The generators are full of gas, and we moved them out on the pad with the covers still on, and the cords are ready. Dad called while you were gone. Said it looks like the storm is staying offshore, but he wants Eli and me to go check on the boat.”

“Did he say when the main feeder bands were going to get here?”

“Not until about four p.m. when the winds began to kick up.” He yelled for Eli. “So we’re going to go now.”

“That is only three hours. You come right back.”

“We will.” Eli pointed to the back yard. “Pete’s outside on the lanai, thought he’d like to stay out as long as he can.” Both boys kissed her on the cheek and took off.

She wanted all the clothes in the house clean in case they lost power and had just put the last load of clothes in the dryer when Micah called. “Mom, Jose at the dock asked us to help him. He’s got a boat stranded about a half-mile offshore, and he needs it towed in. Won’t take us long and then we’ll be straight home.”

“Micah, I really wish you would come straight home.”

“Mom, it’s okay. There’s a family on board, engine died. They’ve been out there for a while. Just a quick trip out and back.”

Unease crept into her thoughts, but she pushed it aside. Her sons were smart, and they had been boating since they were small. They could handle themselves.

Olivia busied herself getting the last of the laundry folded, then reviewed the checklist her husband had made for them when they moved to the Gulf Coast of Florida from Buffalo. She always teased him about being a Boy Scout, but he had been a firefighter for so long that preparation was second nature to him. She and the boys had managed to accomplish everything they needed to do to prepare. She took the clean clothes and towels they might need and put them into a large plastic storage bin. If water came into the house, they would at least have dry clothes and clean towels.

She decided to bake oatmeal raisin cookies for the boys, all three of them. Entering the kitchen, she flipped on the TV before heading to the pantry. As she opened the door, one of the local weather forecaster’s words stopped her cold.

“We just received an emergency update from the National Hurricane Center. Aircraft flying through the storm report that the pressure is dropping more rapidly than expected. In fact, faster than we have ever seen. The storm was a low Cat 1 on the last fly-through. While the Hurricane Center hasn’t released the numbers yet, it appears this storm has strengthened to a possible strong Cat 3. Steering winds are changing and folks, this is beginning to look bad.”

The news anchor for the station responded. “We are expecting a message from the governor within a few minutes. Everyone, we suspect that this hurricane is going to come closer to shore and be at least a Cat 3. We cannot emphasize enough that this is now a highly dangerous storm that will impact us more than we expected. Please make your preparations now and get to a shelter if possible or to your home as quickly as you can.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when her phone rang. It was Dan, her husband.

“Baby, this storm is getting worse. I want you and the boys to stay put, too late to go to a shelter so …”

“Dan, stop. The boys … they’re out on the boat.”

“What? What are they doing on the water? They were supposed to check the moorings and come straight home. I told them not to stay there.”

“A family was stranded about a half-mile from the dock. They were the only ones with a boat able to get to them. Micah said they’d be home as soon as they got the family onshore.” Her voice trembled. “Dan …”

Her husband’s calm voice echoed in her ears. “Liv, they’ll be fine. Both are level-headed, they won’t take any chances.” He paused, and she knew he was trying to stay composed. “This storm is going out of control. I am going to notify the Coast Guard to look for the boat. I am sure they are back at the dock by now.” She heard someone yell his name. “I’ve got to go. Keep listening to the weather, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Don’t worry about the boys. They’ll be okay.”

Dan ended the call and tears spilled down her cheeks. She knew him too well. He was worried. So was she.

The howling wind was becoming stronger, the rain pelting against the metal hurricane shutters. She hurried to the lanai to let Pete inside, then pulled the metal shutters across the wide sliding glass door, secured them and locked the doors. The golden retriever brushed against her as if he knew she was upset. Olivia knelt and hugged Pete. “They’re going to be okay, Pete. I promise.”

She needed to keep busy. The boys would want cookies when they got home. Returning to the kitchen she started the cookie batter, the TV on and the laptop monitor tuned to the security camera on the front door. She wanted to know the minute when the boys arrived.

The storm predictions were becoming ominous. The pressure was dropping and the winds increasing. A storm which was supposed to be passing them by with a glancing blow was becoming a serious threat. Olivia packed the cookies into a plastic container and put it with the other food and cleaned up the kitchen. Coffee in hand, she and Pete curled up on the couch to watch the weather reports.

The storm had stalled just south of them, gaining strength. The weather experts at the Hurricane Center had no idea what was going to happen next. Her mother and Dan’s father called to check on them. The storm’s erratic behavior had everyone on edge. She tried to call Dan at the city emergency center, but the call went to voice mail.

Pete snuggled closer to her and whimpered. She scratched his head and sighed. “We’ll be okay. All of us.”

As rain once again plummeted the house, Olivia jumped when her phone rang. She answered without looking. “Micah? Eli?”

“No, baby, sorry.” The pain in her husband’s voice ripped through her heart.

“Dan, no …”

“I don’t know anything. The Coast Guard tried to locate them, but they couldn’t keep the helos in the air. The storm is far too strong. We know the boys. They’re smart. They would have seen how the weather was deteriorating and headed for shelter.”

“I’m scared.”

“I am too, but let’s have faith in them. Now listen, we received a warning from the hurricane center that the storm may turn toward shore. It’s stalled right now and continues to gain strength. If it hits here, you are six blocks inland and shouldn’t get caught in the storm surge if we have one. I need you to stay calm. Okay?”


“Baby, I love you.”

She gripped the phone so hard her hand began to cramp. “I love you. Stay safe there.”

“I will. And the boys … I feel it in my soul. They’re okay.”

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed five times, and her heart fluttered. Her sons had been gone since one p.m. with no word. As the minutes ticked away, she stared mindlessly at the TV barely comprehending what the cable weather team was saying. She switched the TV to the local station, which was broadcasting from the city emergency center, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dan. His job during a storm emergency was to coordinate damage reports and plan deployment of all fire rescue teams so they could begin search-and-recovery operations once the storm passed. When the emergency weather broadcast alert blared from the set, she and Pete jumped. Her heart thumping in her chest, she wrapped her arms around the dog as she listened.

The National Hurricane Center has issued a hurricane warning for the southwest coast of Florida. As of five forty-seven pm, Hurricane Anna is now a Category-3 storm with sustained winds of 121 mph and pressure at 956 millibars. Storm is eight miles offshore, moving rapidly at 12 mph and beginning to track to the east-northeast and is expected to turn due east and reach landfall somewhere between Siesta Key and Venice around eight pm this evening.

Her blood turned to ice as the emergency broadcast ended. All she could think of was her sons somewhere in the middle of a hurricane. Dan had to be right, the boys had to be safe. Micah and Eli had learned to drive a boat by spending a lot of time on Lake Erie with Dan and his father. That they knew what to do wasn’t a concern. The power of the storm was, and she was scared.

For the next hour, she sat curled on the couch with Pete watching the endless loop of radar as the storm began to turn. Rain beat against the metal hurricane shutters covering all the windows and doors of the house, incessant drumming sounding the same pinging thud. Wind gusts were stronger with each feeder band that came through.

The intense rain let up for a bit, but the wind was relentless. The howling wind was becoming more persistent. Sitting inside her closed-up house, she could sense the barometric pressure dropping, or was it the fear growing within her that weighed so heavily on her chest. She didn’t fear the storm but what her sons were facing. She prayed Dan was right and they had found shelter.

As the torrential rain returned, another weather alert sounded. The storm had turned due east. They were going to take a direct hit. Seconds after the alert ended, the power went off. Using her phone’s flashlight to light the way, she grabbed her laptop from the couch.

“Come on, Pete. Time to go hide.”

When they bought the house, Dan was more excited about the large interior walk-in closet nestled at the end of the hallway than any other feature. He thought it was perfect as a place to keep his family safe. She opened the door and turned on the camping lantern sitting on a shelf. The floor was padded with cot mattresses and pillows, the boxes of food and clothes to get them through the storm stacked in the corner. An audible sob spilled from her, and she sank to her knees. Her sons were supposed to be there, and they weren’t. The closet was too empty.

Pete pawed at her arm, and she rubbed the dog’s head. “No worries, big guy, I will keep you safe.”

She closed and locked the door and opened the vent in the ceiling that Dan had installed to keep fresh air circulating in the closet. Settling on the floor, back against a pillow and Pete snuggled beside her, they began to wait.

A constant stream of storm updates floated from the battery radio but as the eye of the hurricane grew near, the wind was howling so loudly Olivia could barely hear the voices. A constant roar filled the room, coupled with the torrential rains pounding against the house. The bad side of the storm with the winds at their peak was wreaking havoc. The house creaked and moaned as it withstood the wrath of Anna.

Olivia felt as though she was being compressed. Pressure was building in her sinuses, and she felt dizzy. Pete whimpered. No doubt he was feeling the same effects that she was. She slid down to lay next to him, wrapping her arms around him. The emotions she had tried to keep in check couldn’t be contained. Sobs racked her body as the pain of not knowing where Micah and Eli were overwhelmed her.

The boat. That damn boat. Dan had spent months looking for a seaworthy boat that they could afford. He knew how much the boys loved being on the water, but he had wanted them to be safe. Her heart felt like lead, each heartbeat a struggle. They shouldn’t have bought the boat. Now her sons were missing, and it was their fault. She pounded the floor with her fist, crying uncontrollably. They shouldn’t have bought the boat.

Sensing her fear, Pete pushed against her, placing his head on her lap. She hugged him tightly. “They have to be okay, Pete. They have to be.”

The storm raged for another hour violently. Over the roar of the wind and rain, occasionally she heard a loud crack, certain one of the tall palms in the neighborhood had fallen. She wondered if Eli’s car, parked as close to the house was damaged. Throughout the night, the winds calmed, and about three am she fell asleep.

A scratching noise woke her. Pete was standing at the door, looking back at her. She glanced at her phone, a little after six am. Should be light outside.

She stood up and scratched Pete behind the ears. “Bet you need to go out … I will let you in the garage if there is one.”

Walking through the house, she decided to see if she could call Dan since she had a couple of bars. Despite being frightened about what she might learn if she talked to him, she needed to hear his voice.

His phone rang, and as he answered, Pete ran toward the front door. “Liv, you okay?”

“I’m fine … the boys?”

“Open the door, I’m outside.”

Her hands trembled as she unlocked the door. When she opened it she stepped back seeing Dan in the doorway, a huge grin on his face. “You know these two, baby?”

He stepped out of the way and her knees buckled as Micah and Eli entered the house.

Eli grabbed her. “Mom, we were worried about you.”

Through tears, she replied. “Worried about me? I was so scared for you guys.”

Micah hugged her. “Yeah, Mom, we hated leaving you here alone. Glad you are okay.”

“I am glad you are okay. What happened? Where were you?”

Her oldest son smiled. “Winds and the waves were getting rough. That family was on vacation, had rented the boat for the morning. Eli checked the motor … no oil, so the engine seized. We tried to tie a rope to it, but the waves were too high. So, we got the family aboard and left that piece of junk there. But the waves were getting wicked and the rain and wind horrible. Got the family in the cabin and since we were up the coast a bit, we decided to head directly to shore.”

Eli interrupted. “When we got to the shore, I realized where we were. Remember where I was a lifeguard last summer?” Olivia nodded, and Eli continued. “The county has a main water pump station there, a big one. I’d been in it when the water company dudes were there working. Sturdy concrete building — door facing away from the water. I figured we’d be safe there. Lucky for us, the door wasn’t locked. When the storm let up, Micah left and found a police officer. She said they were looking for us and took us to Dad and the family to their hotel.”

Micah laughed. “For once, little brother was right. And Mom, the boat … we drove it up on shore and tied it to some palms. Came through like a trooper and in all that weather, she got us to safety.

Looking toward her husband, she saw tears in his eyes, mimicking hers. Their boys were safe. Not a bad boat after all.

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Please visit D. A. Ratliff’s blog at https://thecoastalquill.wordpress.com

Sarah Anne Steckel – Anthem of Man’s Dying Day

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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Anthem of Man’s Dying Day

By Sarah Anne Steckel

The divine and otherworldly being hovered far up above the bustling seaside metropolitan city, completely unseen to the human eye, as he watched the ant-sized men and women as they scurried to and fro in their menial daily lives. His obsidian wings gently flapped to call forth the twilight and blanket the sky, causing the city lights to rage and burn like fire against its radiant darkness. Clutched firmly in between his hands was a leather-bound tomb, and in his free hand was a quill pen with a single vulture feather; for he wasn’t an ordinary ethereal man but an angel of death, and it was his job to write down the death of man.

Off in the distance there was the low rumbling of thunder, and from his high vantage point he was able to witness the turbulent storm as it rolled in across the eerily calm ocean front. The ocean air grew thick and heavy, as waves that only grew larger and larger began to crash angrily against the somber sandy beach. The maleficent gray clouds masked by the darkness of the night, plump and heavy with rain, opened up their mouths and spewed hail and flooding rain on the civilians down below. Chaos erupted within the streets as individual blocks of power began to experience mass power outages at a single time.

The omnipotent being began writing on the pages of his book, his keen and wary eye on the tsunami that had formed in the center of the ocean, its epic size continuing to rapidly grow as it traveled further inland. The sounds of sirens caused his attention to shift to the humans below him as they screamed and wailed, their city streets already flooding with a mixture of rainwater and sewage. What remained of the city lights flickered and died, leaving the metropolitan metropolis lifeless and dark; the city went eerily silent, the literal calm before the storm.

The tidal wave arched high above the tallest building, casting a shade even in the darkness of night across the entire island. The celestial man gracefully flapped his wings a second time, pausing briefly in his writings to watch the exact moment that the water crested over and descended down on the silent city. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky with its bright, electrifying blue-hued brilliance, capturing the wave as it struck the tallest skyscraper, the water’s weight toppling the iron-rod building as if it were made of straw.

The humans below screamed and bellowed as the water swallowed entire buildings and blocks whole, dragging them along with their occupants helplessly into the hungry sea. Whatever had remained after the first wave was quickly demolished by the second tidal wave that bludgeoned the already welted and deliberated streets; there was less of a human rebuttal now, their cries and pleas only a murmur in his ear. He made a few more scores in his epic tomb, listening as the rumbling of thunder began to roll north.

The archangelic man smoothly flapped his obsidian wings a final time and closed his book; observing how the once lively and bustling city and all of its scurrying and busy creatures quickly perished. He could feel their restless souls as they still continued to cry on, unwilling to accept the truth that they all had died. He felt no remorse for them, this was a job that he was sent to do, and dutifully he obliged. In silence he placed his vulture quill pen behind his ear and took flight. Just like he arrived, Azrael, the angel of Death, departed the human world unnoticed but sure that he would be called back once again to dutifully record the anthem of man’s dying day.

©Sarah Anne Steckel

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Please visit Sarah’s page at https://www.facebook.com/Sarahs-Writing-and-Art-2310272992552740/

Kenneth Lawson – Any Port in a Storm

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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Any Port in a Storm

By Kenneth Lawson

Two more palm trees came crashing down on the beach as the computer finished final preparations for automatic shutdown. The automated weather station had triggered a shutdown when the rains and winds had hit certain marks.

The solar panels and a small wind turbine, that generated power that ran the inverters and batteries that ran the station, began to shake on their foundations as the winds and rains picked up.

Meanwhile, deep inside the stone and concrete building, an automated computer had been monitoring communications on the tiny island of Leetown, a private island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The waves began to crash against the outside of the building. Within minutes the tiny island was covered in twenty feet of water which crashed over and through everything. While most of the smaller less well-built buildings lay flat in a matter of minutes, the old stone-and-block building didn’t completely submit to the water. It remained standing.

However, the ancient mortar-and-cement casing did partially give way to the intense weight and pressure of the water as it swept across the small island. Water found its way into every little nook and cranny that had an opening at all, forcing blocks and stones to shift and let in more water. When it was done, three feet of water made itself home throughout the tiny building. Computers and electronics were waterlogged and fried.

Several weeks later, Cole Webber made his way back to the tiny island.

In the weeks following the storm, he had made a financial killing off the data siphoned off the internet and private networks he had been tapping into for several months. The cost to set up the substation had been high. But the need for secrecy was higher. This particular island had been chosen because of its location to the main backbone of the internet running under the ocean and to the nearest land-based server center—thus allowing him direct access to the main trunk traffic of the internet and the ability to piggyback on others who were spying on the internet. Also because it was so far out in the middle of nowhere, it would never occur to them that anyone would set up a hardware system to tap into the servers.

The usefulness of the substation was now past. He had what he needed from it, and with the storm destroying everything, he thought it was time to come in and rip everything out.

As he expected, the island was a total washout. By now most of the water had subsided and found its way back to the ocean. However, there were still pockets where several feet of water sat and the bugs were making themselves at home.

The solar panels and inverters and all of the external hardware that had run the small computer station were in ruins outside the building.

Pushing the door open, he was greeted with water up to his knees. The water came gushing out of the door around his legs. Using his flashlight he looked around inside the small building.

There on the far wall, mounted high, was a single monitor, its cords dangling against the wall. To his surprise, a single light was flashing. The screen had a small blinking oblong dot in the upper left corner. Cole recognized it instantly as a DOS prompt.

Stepping into the room, now covered with slime and mud, he saw computer components lying all over the tables and floor. He approached the one screen still working.

And the built-in speaker spoke to him.

“Hello, Cole, we’ve been waiting for you.”

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Please visit Kenneth’s blog at http://kennethlawson.weebly.com/

Enzo Stephens – Boxer Briefs

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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Boxer Briefs

By Enzo Stephens

Everyone knew a real crap-storm was imminent, but the real question in the mind of Greedy O’Shamlin was when.

Because when mattered to Greedy.

Greedy played the odds, always, and since he was a perpetual betting man, he was betting that the raw unbridled fury of nature would take its sweet time making landfall, thereby screwing up all sorts of stuff with limitless tons of dirty water. Whether the water fell from the sky or washed up from the sea, well, it was still dirty, and Greedy really had no affinity for dirty water.

But still …

Because while Greedy loved playing against the Fates, he hated filth more. It’s why he lived alone and it’s why he was quite happy living alone. Simply put, people were filthy.

And so Greedy reveled in the steaming pellets of clean water that pummeled his skin, and yet, a tiny niggle of doubt squirmed around in the reptilian part of his calculating brain.

That doubt had a little but persistent voice that kept repeating stuff like, ‘you need to get outta here, dumb-ass,’ and ‘it’s a freaking Category-5 hurricane, dumb-ass.’

Greedy decided to respond to that small, annoying seed of doubt by lathering his long, blond hair in a wonderful, enriching, lavender shampoo. Tea-tree oils evoked a tingle on his scalp that was quite pleasant.

Alas, the hot-water tank had reached its limit and the streaming shower began to grow tepid in temperature, and so Greedy rinsed his tresses until they squeaked between his pressing fingers.

He tapped the shower control to OFF, slid the opaque glass door open soundlessly, and stepped onto heated marble flooring, eschewing a bath sheet in favor of air drying, and waited for the fog to clear from the vanity mirrors on two walls of his custom bathroom. He really hit a hard workout earlier in the morning with great focus on his triceps, shoulders and quads, and he wanted to see the fruits of his labor.

In the interim, Greedy decided to brush his teeth for the fourth time on this day—a bit excessive, but filth had a way of hanging on stubbornly between one’s teeth. It was when he shut down his sonic toothbrush that he heard a very jarring noise from the exterior of his home, one that certainly warranted further investigation.

He pulled a pair of boxer-briefs from a hook over the door, stepped first his right foot through and—

The jarring noise again! Sounded like parts were being ripped off the house itself, and there was some kind of outrageous roaring going on out there, and right at that second Greedy felt that it was time to stop playing the odds and maybe expedite matters to the point of a rapidly-ensuing personal evacuation.

The grubby cat can fend for itself.

He hoisted that left knee up to jam his left foot through the briefs and the big toe somehow got stuck and then Greedy wobbled, losing his balance, and he reached his hand out to halt his fall but missed the granite vanity completely and saw the unyielding vanity surface rushing up toward his view and then…


Wake up already!

“Huh?” Greedy opened his eyes with the memory of what he saw last vivid in his brain, and he completely expected to be in a hospital or something, or at the least, lying sprawled out on his bathroom floor, thankful for the warm tiled floor.

But that’s not what Greedy saw, not at all. What greeted Greedy’s view was … gray. Like everything was gray. He looked around—absently noting that he had full movement of his neck, which meant that his neck was not broken, and saw gray.

No floor, no ground, no walls, no outside or inside, no ceiling, no sun. Nothing. Just gray. What the—

So, you were doing something pretty stupid there.

“What? Who’s talking?”

Allow me to answer your question with a question. Do you know your name?

“What kind of stupid question is that? Am I paralyzed or something?”

Or something. Now, your name please.

“It’s Greedy O’Sh … wait a minute; hold on a sec.”

Take your time, I’ve got all the time you can imagine.

“Something’s off. I remember my name being ‘Greedy,’ but I remember something else too, something … older?”

Now you’re getting there. Keep working at it.

“Why the fu—”

Don’t allow yourself to get distracted by your circumstance. Your name? WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

“Okay, okay, don’t get your panties all in a bunch—”

When you figure out WHO you are, you’ll realize just how inappropriate that comment is, Child.

And yes, there! Just a tiny little thread right at the edge of Greedy’s memory, an old thing that he didn’t really understand (like quantum physics or women), but he found that little niggling thing and latched onto it tenaciously.

“It’s Jrgshddl.” He shook his head, or at least it felt like he shook his head. “Did I just say that?”

Welcome home, Jrgshddl.

“Wait. Am I … dead?”

Your physical shell is lifeless and will be returned to the earth by fire.

“Oh shi … er, crap! So what is this … place, and who the heck are you?”

You already know the answers to those questions, Jrgshddl.

“Are you … God?”

You know I am.

Greedy/Jrgshddl’s mind reeled. He struggled to absorb and understand everything that happened and that was now happening, but … so many questions! “Okay, God. So what is this place and what’s the plan for me now?”

You should remember that this is just a holding place for you. It’s a place for you to rest and reflect and to understand your place and remember your progression.

“So, like Purgatory.”

You would do well to not ascribe your silly Catholic rituals and fantasies to me, Child.

“Well, I’ve just had my pee-pee slapped by God Himself.”

You no longer have a pee-pee. In fact, you no longer have a physical body.

“I was being figurative, not literal.”

Yes, Jrgshddl, you’ve been like that since I gave you your first spark of life.

“So, um, God? Do you mind if I take some time here to try to get my head wrapped around all this?”

Listen to me now, Child. Your physical shell is gone. Dead. Reduced to ash. You have to let go and do so as soon as you can. Once you let go of your physical trappings, you’ll trigger the ancient memories you’re supposed to trigger, and then we can move on to the next phase for you.

Without a physical environment, Greedy was at a bit of a loss as to what exactly he should do. Pace? That seemed to work for him when he was … alive. Sit down? On what, and where? There’s nothing—

That’s correct, Jrgshddl, there’s nothing. I designed this place like that to make it easier to let go.

“Well you certainly did a fine job.” No response. As Jrgshddl attempted to look around and be confronted by nothingness, he tried to push, or project his mind out from himself and into the nothingness.

Why not? There was nothing else to do. But the odd thing—as if any of this wasn’t odd anyway, was that as Jrgshddl tried to expand his consciousness, the memories of his life as Greedy O’Shamlin seemed to flit away. This was a gradual thing and it continued until Jrgshddl’s mind was soothed and integrated with the surroundings, the surroundings of nothingness.


“Yes, God.”

That’s much better, Jrgshddl. Now we can talk.

“I’m all ears, God.”

I always did enjoy your humor, Child. But now we must be serious. In your life as Greedy O’Shamlin, well, you left a bit to be desired.

“In my defense, nobody’s perfect. Well, nobody, except for you and Jesus.”

Child, there is no need to defend. I know all and I see all. I knew what was in your heart from its first throb until you rejoined me here. I’ve known it for ages, Jrgshddl, and I will know it when you finally pass to the next stage in your evolution.

“Which is what?”

Which is not for you to know yet. But I will say that I gave you an illustration of what’s next for Mankind in my Word, which you call the Bible.

“Riddles! Why not just come out and give up the deets?”

Because you are not yet ready and you have to return.

“Well, I don’t see the problem because I won’t remember all this anyway.”

No, Child, that’s not accurate at all. Allowing a slight bit of remembrance is what helps Mankind to elevate themselves to their next phase. So yes, you will remember just a bit more than last time, and you’ll be that much closer.

“This seems like a colossal time-suck to me. I mean, why all the back and forth, why all the life and then death? Why not just bump us up to that next stage without all this … stuff?”

Jrgshddl, in the world of the living, there is a metal that you pull from the earth. It is beautiful and pure and clean, and Mankind treasures it. It is called ‘silver.’

“Okay, sure. I’ve had some silver.”

Do you think it comes from the earth shiny and beautiful? It does not. To create the beautiful metal, the impurities have to be removed from the ore. That is done through fire, which is called ‘refiner’s fire.’

“Okay, so I’m not really getting all this yet—”

Truly refining that metal takes more than one pass through the refiner’s fire, Child. You, and all of Mankind, are like that ore that’s pulled from the earthfull of wonderful potential and beauty as well as impurities.

“So going back and forth like this will remove impurities?”

Absolutely. So if this ‘pass’ cleanses you of all your impurities, no further refining will be needed and you can move on.

God’s thoughts echoed in Jrgshddl’s mind with the impact of a gong on a distant mountain just as a blast of shockingly cold seawater engulfed him and he sank below the surface of an extremely angry sea.

He kicked his legs and feet frantically and finally broke free of the riotous surf and opened his eyes in shock and then wonder. A raging deluge of rain hammered the ocean, which protested by heaving gigantic surges and surf back at the sky, which responded with insanely powerful winds and jagged bolts of lightning.

And Jrgshddl was right in the middle of it.

He kicked himself in a circle, feeling like a microbe against the heaving vastness of the seas, amazed that he was able to keep his head above water, and spied a red lifeboat with lights flashing fore and aft, bouncing around on surf determined to crush the small craft.

It was durable though—built to withstand a hurricane! He struck out toward the boat, no more than one hundred feet from it and closing in, when he heard voices.

He looked toward the boat, seeing the door ajar; long hair whipping around, and a familiar face etched with frantic worry screaming his name, and he longed to go to her.

“Come on, Jordon, COME ON!”


He knifed through the pounding storm surge, fighting crisscrossing undercurrents that strove to yank him under as exhaustion began stealing over him and then …

Small hands snagged the collar of his shirt and pulled him toward the craft and he pushed and clawed and climbed to be free of the angry hands of the sea until he fell forward on top of the woman who held him violently, clinging with every ounce of desperate strength.

He gasped, shaking saltwater from his mouth that was causing his belly to rumble. “You saved me. You saved my life.”

She kissed him. Deeply with frantic passion. “No way was I letting you go, Jordy. It wasn’t your time, my love.”

Together the two kicked the hatch door shut and held each other as the Category-5 storm raged.

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Erin Crocker – Things We Left

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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Things We Left

By Erin Crocker

The toe boxes of Ellony Pickett’s scuffed Mary Janes kicked against one of the table’s wooden legs.

“Stop it!” Doris turned from the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink.

A reporter on TV shouted over the hurricane. “…evacuate last week. Residents of Eastern Florida—” A sudden whoosh of static drowned out the station.

When the channel cleared, Ellony kicked her feet harder to keep up with the bouts of wind. Her eyes widened when she noticed the trunk of a palm bending. Another whoosh interrupted the report.

Tap. Tap.

“Child, I said to stop.”

For the first time in hours, Ellony’s green eyes diverted to the woman with an unlit cigarette hanging between her thin lips, struggling to talk. “Stop what?” the little girl asked.

Doris flicked the spark wheel on her cheap BIC. “You know,” she mumbled.

“I don’t,” Ellony whined.

Swish. “…And reports are just in that the wind…” Swish. Swish. “…The count is down—” Swish. “And we’re expecting that…” Swish.

“Dammit, Charlie!” Doris called down the empty hallway. “Charlie!”

Ellony turned back to the TV and rested her chin on her knuckles before batting her eyes and holding them for a few seconds. She swung her legs, and her toes resumed the tap, tap, tap of kicking into the table’s leg.

“I asked you to stop!” Doris turned and creased her forehead.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Charlie, if you don’t get your ass in here—”


“I’m comin’, woman.” The overweight man shuffled down the hall and pulled his jeans over the roll on his stomach. “What the hell you want?”

Ellony grimaced at the curly chest hair that lay in thick patches over his a-line undershirt.

“Get outside and fix the antenna.” Doris nodded to Ellony. “Little shit’s driving me crazy enough kicking those shoes into the cabinet. Now I gotta deal with static. Program’s about to come on and I ain’t going to miss it today. Get out there and fix the thing.”

Charlie turned the corner of his mouth up and shook his head as he shifted his tone to mimic Doris’. “Get out there and fix the thing.” He threw his shoulders back. “Woman, all I do ’round here is fix shit. Day’s Saturday. I ain’t doin’ shit.”

Doris threw her hands on her hips. “To hell you ain’t! Get out there and fix the damn antenna.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“And, woah. Did you get that?” The reporter motioned to a stuffed animal that whizzed by his head and disappeared among the rain and debris. “Did you see that?”


“I said fix the damn thing!” Doris took another drag and sat the remainder of the cigarette in a saucer.

The sound of her mom slamming the cabinet door shut was little Ellony’s cue to exit. After the last confrontation, when the girl had stepped in front of Charlie who was stumbling toward her mother, hand balled into a fist, vying to strike Doris a third time and inflicting the punch on Ellony instead, she’d learned to stay away.

In the safety of her bedroom, she wrapped her seven-year-old arms around Isha and hugged the stuffed rabbit as though the ratty toy possessed the ability to protect her. Her thoughts turned back to the storm on the television; the beach looked nothing like all the beaches she’d seen in the adverts. To her little eyes, it looked like the reporter was standing in the middle of a nightmare. She hugged Isha tighter. It’s a shame some kid lost their stuffy.

Swish, Swish, Ellony used the remainder of baby fat that hadn’t yet left her cheeks to expand the air in her mouth into a sound she thought resembled the angry wind. Swish, Swish, Swish.

The storm became louder. Dishes whirled and flung against walls. Louder, a scream sounded from somewhere in the house. Darkness tiptoed into her room that, seconds ago, the sun had lit. Loose twigs tapped like bony fingers against her window.

Here’s my chance, the girl told herself before grabbing Isha and sneaking out the screen door. Once outside in the wind, she placed her fist in front of her mouth. “This is Ellony Pickett with channel nine weather. And this,” she nodded to Isha, “is my assistant. The winds are going really fast. Can you all hear that?” She turned her fist to the trees and looked to the hazy, green Midwestern sky.


“…Reports say it was an F-5 that tore through the Midwest yesterday evening—” Nevaeh turned in time to see the picture at the side of the screen showing the arm of a small child reaching for the floppy ear of a stuffed rabbit; debris and what Nevaeh thought to be wooden planks covered the rest of the child’s body.

The woman made a quick job of turning the television off. “What on earth do they show on TV anymore. I—”

“Mommy!” Terrell turned his focus from the TV to his mom’s worried expression.

“Finish your milk, baby. We gotta get going.” She rushed around, throwing a few more items into a duffel bag while she spoke. “…Pick up Daddy, and then we gotta beat the traffic.” Nevaeh paused and tossed her Havana twists behind her back. “Finished, little man?”

“Yeah.” Terrell held his empty glass up and his smile grew when he did. “Mommy, what’s an eff eye?”

“An ‘eff eye’?” Nevaeh turned and the TV caught her attention. She remembered the photos of the ravaged town … and the small child. “Okay, an F-5. It’s a tornado, a very bad storm.” She knew she didn’t have time to explain more. A horn from outside honked and a few shouts caught her attention. “Come on, baby. We have to leave … now.”

Terrell jumped from his seat and ran to Nevaeh who put a hand around his shoulder and tried to comfort her boy with a reassuring look and a quick hug. He pulled back. “Jo-Jo…”

Nevaeh’s heart fell through her stomach at the realization she’d forgotten the stuffed lamb. She knew they didn’t have time. The firefighters weren’t going to magically stop the wildfires, and traffic was getting worse. “Sweetie, we just can’t—”

“Jo-Jo smells like Pops.” He blinked those sweet brown eyes Nevaeh couldn’t tell him no.

“Stay right here.” She hurried to the stairs. “Don’t move. Mommy is going to find him, I promise.”

Her feet thudded up the staircase and she rushed to Terrell’s room. Nevaeh opened the door and her eyes scanned the boxes of toys that remained in bins in his closet. She bent and surveyed under his bed. Terrell was right; Pops, Nevaeh’s dad, had given Jo-Jo to Terrell days before the older man passed away. She had to find him. That’s right, she thought, Terrell crawled in bed with us … early this morning. She flew to her room and tossed the blankets around.

From outside, desperate honks sounded. She peeked out her bedroom window to see cars lined up at the four-way stop that served as the exit to her family’s subdivision. How much time did they have? Days? Hours? Minutes?

“Shit, Jo-Jo,” she whispered.


Terrell’s eyes gleamed when he saw his mommy run back downstairs carrying a tote.

“Okay, baby. I found him,” she said. “Now, we have to go. It’s going to be okay.”

Terrell wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, why they had to leave everything behind, but he was certain of three things; he had his mommy, his daddy, and somewhere in Mommy’s bag, was Jo-Jo, and Jo-Jo smelled like Pops.

The little boy smiled.

Terrell sat in silence and allowed Nevaeh to buckle him in his car seat.


A snapshot of Terrell and Pops fell from a burned box in the attic as hungry flames licked the siding of 105 Oceanview Drive. The photo landed next to Jo-Jo whose palm extended outward as though he lay, faithfully waiting for Terrell’s tiny hands to pull him to safety.

The lamb, who Terrell had left under the guestroom bed during a game of hide-and-seek stared at the bottom of the mattress with unknowing glass eyes as the frame of the house collapsed and the fire consumed his tiny plush body.

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Please visit Erin’s blog! http://bit.ly/2IM9SfM

D. L. Tillery – “Lost To The Storm”

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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“Lost To The Storm”

By D. L. Tillery 

A single moment, a breath of life, I couldn’t blink, I couldn’t cry. Tingling all over, no sounds of wonder, I’m blinded by you and this inner thunder. Waves clash against me, inside me, as I fight the fall, as I fight your call. The day you emerged before me, was the day I lost my heart to thee. My soul ignites with the lightest touch, unknown to you, I fold as a palm tree under bended knee. What is this? What are we? Let me surrender, or let me flee.

The storm has come, just as the light fades, the winds rage … touch me, I beg. When you arrived I was lost at sea, the stings of water droplets awakened me. Take not away this unknown storm, uprooting, are we not the norm?

Your beauty has penetrated to the deepest core, hold my hand as we soar. Where we land is one and the same, in the center of our storm we’re lost … come what may.

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Please visit author at www.authordltillery.wixsite.com/authorsite


Official website of Author D.L Tillery Fiction Writer


Doug Blackford – Storm Front

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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“Storm Front”

By Doug Blackford

The storm sounded like a train over the house. It was just like sixteen years ago except that I was experiencing memories and feelings that I hadn’t had then. Well, not just like it. Micah wasn’t with me this time. The storm made it difficult to remember what was past and what was present and keep them separate. All of the pain, anger, grief, guilt, and everything else that made me feel like shit made it harder still.

I could hear his voice. I could almost smell his cologne — that slightly musky spice of Lagerfeld blended with undertones of the sandalwood incense he was so fond of having in the house. I was just as guilty as Micah. Living on the southeastern coast of the U.S., we had both been through hurricanes before. A Cat 1 or 2 weren’t really big deals. A Cat 3 deserved some serious consideration, and if it was stronger than that it meant getting the hell out and hoping you had something to come back to when it was done. His reassurance was all I had needed to decide to ride it out. After all, it was just a Cat 1.

This one had started as a Cat 1, too. It was well past that now, but not yet where it needed to be. Not long now. I just needed to stay focused. Keep the memories foremost in my mind, but be mindful of the present. It wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. Master Fetch’s words passed through my mind.

“You can observe your past, but you cannot physically travel there. Memory is a window, but only for the mind. You must always keep in your mind that you are not physically there or you risk becoming unstuck and adrift. Your body is your anchor. Let its weight keep you in the present.”

I reaffirmed my resolve and determination and settled into a more comfortable position on the bare floor. The cold hardness of the tiles helped ground me. The only other things on the floor were the mattress I had bought for the house’s sole furnishing, and an obelisk of crystal in the room’s center. I couldn’t afford distractions, and I didn’t expect to be needing anything else. I climbed back inside my memories and worked toward getting the storm in my mind synced to the one outside.

We had gone to bed, not worried about the storm that was due about two in the morning. We heard the wind and rain when it came onshore, but we just rolled over and went back to sleep. No big deal. We knew it was going to be a stormy Saturday, so we slept in till almost eight. When we got up, the storm was raging. It should have mostly passed by then, but no, it was raining so hard that I could barely see the car in the driveway.

“What the hell?”

I turned from the window at Micah’s voice, then looked at the TV as he took it off mute. “All we can tell you right now is that the storm has stalled just offshore and is increasing in strength. At this time, meteorologists are investigating what is feeding it and what has caused the stall. The latest satellite imagery indicates there is a massive well of heat rising through the storm’s center, but we are unable to determine its source. A hurricane hunter is in the air and en route to acquire more data.”

I looked from the TV back toward Micah and asked, “That’s not normal, is it?” I had seen a couple of storms stall and get stronger before, but this one seemed … different. A well of hot air they couldn’t determine? What was that about? Micah did not get upset easily, but I could tell he was now.


Just the one word, then Micah looked at me with tears in his eyes. I stood there stunned. I was getting worried now and unsure what to think. “

Current measurements estimate the storm’s strength at 147 mph sustained winds and increasing. The stall has most of the damaging winds located offshore, but this is a solid Cat 4 storm, folks. The storm is still pushing a powerful surge, so please take immediate action and evacuate. We will have continuing coverage and will let you know the moment we have new or updated information.”


The turning off of the TV was like breaking a spell and I sat down next to Micah on the couch.

“What’s wrong, baby? We can just grab some things and leave. The worst is still offshore, so the causeways should still be open.”

Micah let out a long sigh and looked down as he took hold of my hands. “It doesn’t matter. If we tried to run, they would follow us inland and countless lives would be lost.”

Now I was confused. “They? They who?”

Micah leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, a frown creasing his face. I wasn’t sure if the frown was because he was trying to think of an answer or if he was worried about the situation. “

I should have told you, but I never thought they would find me. I really didn’t.”

I couldn’t feel one of my feet and remembered when and where I was. It was so easy to get lost in the memory. I ran Master Fetch’s words over in my mind while getting up to stretch. “

Nature cannot abide a paradox. That is why you cannot travel into your own past, or the past of your past. Your own timeline cannot be accessed in the past except through memory. That is not to say you cannot travel into the past at all, but when you travel into the past, no matter how far back you go, it is to a different timeline than the one that produced the unique you sitting here now.”

I think I understand, but that isn’t much help.” “

But it is, child. You simply fail to see it from the right perspective. You have but one true past, thus it is inaccessible because your past cannot alter your present self. On the other hand of time, your future has not yet been experienced by your present self, thus all possible futures are available to you.”

I had thought long and hard on that one, weeks and months. I had already been studying The Ways for three years by that point, but I didn’t get it and I finally told him so. “

Master, you have taught me much, but I still don’t understand how not being able to travel into my past, yet being able to access any future is helpful toward my goal.”

“That is because you think of time only from your now. You wish to find the love from your past, but you only think of how to get to then from now. You fail to realize that then is now. All time exists in a single moment and that moment is unique to every living and nonliving thing. The now of now is a future of then, which means the then can connect to the now.”

As confusing as it had sounded, it made perfect sense.

The Ways taught about matter and energy — how they were different and how they were the same. It provided instruction about leylines and the paths of power. It included lessons regarding movement in space and time. It honed one’s mind into a tool and weapon of focus and will. It had taken me fifteen years to graduate, but it had been worth it. At least, I hoped it had been worth it. I would know soon enough.

The storm felt right. I took a stance over the focus crystal and called forth my memories once more. Summoning a storm of this size wasn’t the easiest thing, but it was essentially just elemental magic and like called to like. What I was about to do was magnitudes more difficult and I would only get the one chance. “

I have to go, Maggie.”

“Go? What do you mean, go?! Go where? And who the hell are you talking about with they?”

I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was confused and getting scared and my natural reaction to that was to get pissed. I could see that Micah recognized the signs. He had gotten up from the couch, but he reached down and took my hands, then knelt in front of me.

“There’s no easy way to say this, which is partly why I never said anything.

That, and there was no need and you wouldn’t have believed me anyway.” That had me more worried than confused, but the shift was just enough to calm my rising temper. “

Just tell me, Micah. I’m a big girl.”

“I’m not from here. I mean, I’m not from this world.”

How does a person deal with something like that? Laughter at the absurdity of it? Worry for the other person’s sanity? Fear for your own safety? I didn’t know how to respond, so I just sat there.

Micah continued. “This is no ordinary storm. That’s pretty self-evident, I suppose. At its center lies what you could call a gateway. On the other side of that gateway is where I am from. Some might call that place Hell. Others might call it Heaven. Depends on your perspective, but either way, escaping it is not supposed to be possible. I did and now the gatekeepers have found me and are here to take me back.”

This was what going into shock felt like. No, that’s not right. Insane, that’s it. I was losing my mind. He couldn’t be serious, which meant he had lost his mind. But he seemed serious, which meant I must be losing mine and I was scrabbling for the edges to hold on with my fingernails.


Micah screwed up his face in puzzlement. “No?”

“I didn’t stutter. No. You’re not some alien or whatever from another world. You’re my husband. Why are you saying these things?”

I was ready to cry now. The most solid part of my life was crumbling and I didn’t know what to do. What was I supposed to do? To say?

Micah stood back up and began glowing. I watched in stunned silence and disbelief as he seemed to grow horns, then have them disappear. Monstrous feathered wings stretched out to his sides from behind him, then they took on a leathery bat-like appearance before also disappearing. What was most disconcerting, though not the weirdest, were his eyes. They were his, then completely silver, then completely black, then his again. It felt like reality was slipping away.

“I’m sorry, Maggie. I love you.”

Reality was slipping away! I jerked back to my present and broke the focus crystal on the floor as Micah closed the door in my memory. I went to the door after Micah in my memory, but the wind and rain forced me back inside. In my present, I stepped out into the storm.

The Ways had taught me how to speak to the elements. The wind and rain flowed over and around me, but did not grab hold. The storm of my past was now intertwined with the one in my present. My now was a future of my past. I could not go to then, but I could bring part of it to now. My memory ended at that door, but the storm’s memory was here now. I followed the Micah of then as quickly as I could. With the breaking of the focus crystal, the storm would soon die.

I had not believed Micah then, and I was not sure I believed him now, but I had learned many things that I would have thought were fantasy sixteen years ago. I needed to find him, so this is where I had to start. The storm’s memory was taking me to the heart of the storm, just as Micah had told me. When I reached it, my doubts left me. At least this part had been true. Spinning in front of me was a swirling vortex of darkness and light fighting for dominance. It was like one of those wormholes you see in science fiction shows, or a powerful whirlpool, but made of some kind of energy instead of water.

“Okay then. If I have to go to Hell to get you back, then that’s where I’m going. Maybe you’re a demon or a devil or an angel or whatever. I don’t know, but you’re still my demon.”

I stepped through. Copyright © 2019 DJ Blackford. All Rights Reserved.

Please visit the author at: https://smithandscribe.wordpress.com/

Barbra Badger – Devil Wind

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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By Barbra Badger

‘Fremantle Doctor’ affects the city of Perth on the west coast of Australia and is one of the most consistent winds in the world.

Standing outside in a small Southern California town, two coworkers enjoyed the sunshine and a gentle breeze on their ten-minute break.

“I love the wind.” Charlotte released a long sigh. “Maybe it’s the way it tosses my hair and ruffles my clothes—playfully, like my grama used to do. Oh, how I miss her.”

Graham listened with a twinkle in his eye ’til she finished (a rarity among their circles). “I know a place in the south seas ‘twould cure you of that obsession.” He was shaking his head as he rolled a cigarette.

She loved his Aussie accent. That’s what charmed her to be his friend in a somewhat unfriendly place. Workers here were paid minimum wage $1.25 hour, except for the welders. The dissatisfaction running rampant made for lots of grumbling and scowling faces. Charlotte felt ‘safe’ with Graham. He was happily married and not much taller than her. (Another rarity—anywhere.) The near equal height made it easy for her to talk to him.

“What do you mean ‘cure’?”

He held the freshly-rolled cigarette tightly in his lips. “The wind never stops there. It brings hurricanes to a certain island every year. No one lives there, it’s impossible to keep materials from blowing away at any time. But hurricanes even remove everything that could be used for building shelter.”

The light that had gleamed from Charlotte’s face dimmed, her shoulders drooped a little. It was plain the joy she had felt from the spring breeze was gone.

Graham made note to take it easier when describing things to her. He thought she was tough. Watching her heft twenty-pound weights in and out of the test basket all day had given him the impression that she was hard shelled.

He didn’t know she had taken this job out of sheer desperation in survival mode. It was that condition which was the source of her strength. After all, she was only five-feet tall, weighed 100 lbs. with her work boots on; alone now after marriage, a long live-in situation and before getting the job—homeless.

Places in the world where the wind has a name, Santa Ana, N’oreaster, and many more; the people living there know what to expect and usually when to expect it and how to respond when it comes.

Not too many days after their conversation, another Australian swept through the side door. Charlotte looked up, their eyes locked. The magnetism was so strong and immediate for both of them, even at fifty feet apart, he lost his breath, and her knees buckled.

The Santa Anas began blowing that day. They have been known to tip overloaded semis, toss large dangerous objects onto the freeways, take shingles off roofs, and make thick clouds of sand obscure drivers’ views and pit windshields.

Graham was not impressed with his first experience of the Southern California wind, but he had a feeling something else dangerous was brewing.

Charlotte was carried on a wave of fear and delight for days while she and the new Aussie spent break times and lunch together in the field across the road. They talked, they laughed, she sang, he grinned. She was drowning in a sea of hormones.

Like the unannounced devil wind that spontaneously picks up four-foot-long 2x4s as it twirls across an empty lot, she was spinning in a fog when the hurricane hit with full force.

She discovered Hurricane Frank was married, too late.

Seen by Barbra Badger at 1:32 PM

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Enzo Stephens – I Won

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!

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I Won

By Enzo Stephens

Glen Hutchinson—Hutch, rolled his brawny shoulders and rotated his thick, corded wrists as he gazed absently at the bright orange sun peeking above the roiling Atlantic.

Hutch enjoyed mornings here in Wilmington, North Carolina, especially when September rolled around. The seas were always tumultuous and the air often thick and damp, and surprising thunderheads would spring up seemingly out of nowhere, signaling heavy storms were on their way.

A sparkling glass wall separated Hutch from the winds and the spray of the surf and the soggy, humid air; the east-facing wall of his huge house that contained all of two bedrooms and three bathrooms, one massive training room, and a couple of needful things, such as a kitchen. That was all Hutch needed, but oh that training room!

A variety of heavy bags, focus bags, speed bags; a boxing ring; throw dummies; weights galore, treadmills, stationary bikes, rowing machine; the array of equipment was dizzying, and it was where Hutch essentially spent most of his time.

Training. Turning himself into a weapon; a fierce force of lethal destruction and his obsession was relentless.


On this fine September morning, Hutch was annoyed.

A very close, underground ‘friend’ of Hutch’s forwarded a streamed mixed-martial-arts fight to Hutch late last night with a cryptic message of, “Ya gotta see this Hutch.”

Such a message was unusual, and so Hutch opened the stream on his tablet and watched the beginning of a match between what looked to be two heavyweights. At first, Hutch was bored, even dismissive.

Two younger guys, punks really, all tatted up with stupid-looking trunks and hair poking up all over the place, and one guy had a ridiculously long beard. As if. What kind of an idiot would get into a match sporting that nonsense?

The bell rang and the two squared off, then began exchanging; first light jabs and quick snap kicks to the opponent’s legs. Nothing serious or even worthy of Hutch’s time, and Hutch vowed to lay into his friend for wasting his time with this dreck.

But then things amped up between the two combatants. The bearded guy scored cleanly with a left cross then rushed in to swing wildly at the staggered opponent.

But it looked like the guy who was staggered was sandbagging, and as the bearded guy came in whaling away, the clean-shaven warrior delivered a wicked left hook, followed with a devastating right uppercut, snapping beard-boy’s head back like it was on a rope.

Beard-boy staggered back, reeling and then the sandbagger ripped off a spinning heel-hook kick to beard-boy’s temple that was so fast that Hutch completely missed seeing it at first. One second beard-boy was reeling; an eye-blink later sandbagger’s heel was slamming into beard-boy’s temple. The crunching sound of the blow told a grim story for beard-boy. Damn!

Hutch rewound then stepped the video forward, frame-by-frame, and even there, the sandbagger’s foot was a blur.

Hutch stopped the stream and snagged his phone, an eerie gleam in his eyes.


The phone rang, incessant, demanding immediate attention; the Vincent Price laughing ringtone mocking and taunting Ben Schofield as he sat in his dumpy studio apartment with the blinds drawn on a sunny Pennsylvania morning. Ben ignored the damned phone.

The Fight replayed for the super-zillionth time in his head in slo-mo. Ben knew that he suckered his opponent in by faking a stagger, but again he chastised himself bitterly. The two punches were enough to finish the fight; the guy was out on his feet, eyes glazed, breath whistling through his open, gasping mouth. He was beaten, no doubt.

But that wasn’t good enough for Ben, no siree. He just had to follow up with that heel-hook kick, and he knew just as sure as Ben knew he’d won the fight, that he’d severely hurt the man. Hell, he felt his heel actually sink into the man’s head!

Ben was utterly shocked to discover that he’d killed the man.

His license was immediately suspended, so no more fighting, but that wasn’t the worst part of this nightmare. The worst part was that his opponent had a wife and two kids; toddlers, both boys, and Ben Schofield—in one swift and thoughtless move—wiped their daddy from the face of the living.

Depression swamped over Ben again and tears leaked silently from his burning eyes.

Vincent Price started laughing again and Ben vowed to get rid of that damned ringtone just as soon as he could get up enough energy to give a damn. He snared the phone from the coffee table in front of him and eyed the display. It read ‘Marky Mark’ and Ben thumbed ‘Decline.’

Marky Mark was his trainer and fight manager, but Ben had zero interest in talking to the smarmy asshat. The phone immediately piped to life in his hand and a nameless rage surged within Ben. He thumbed ‘Accept,’ then, “What?”


“Don’t call me that, shitball.”

“Look Ben, tough break on that fight, huh?”

“Ya think?”

“C’mon dude, crap happens!”

“Mark,” Ben paused, heaving a deep, exhausted sigh. “Mark, I killed the guy.”

Mark’s usual ebullience was subdued. “I know—”

Ben was on the verge of breaking down and Mark was the last person Ben wanted to see that. Another sigh, then, “So what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“No worries, Ben. We can get you licensed in another state—”


“Nevada will license you.”

“No they won’t.”

“Well look, I maybe got some good news for you.”

“Do tell. The suspense is killing me.”

“Cheer up, Ben. This one’s a big payday!”

Ben paused, then, “‘One’? Another fight?”

“Listen Schofield, you take this one and you’ll be set for a few years to get up on your feet somewhere and make a life for yourself. That’s a lot more than most fighters your age.”

Ben thumbed the red icon and dropped the phone.


“Come in. You’re Ben, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re freaking gorgeous.” Ben stepped through the double doors, eyeing the tall, slender blond with the painted-on micro-dress. “I never knew a woman who dressed like you’re dressed, unless they were a pro.”

She turned and smiled at Ben, her teeth gleaming. “I’m not a pro, Ben, and I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

Ben looked at his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. She pushed her hand out to him. “I’m Brenda. Brenda Hutchinson.”

Ben was surprised. “Missus Hutchinson?”

She laughed. “God no. I’m his sister. I can’t imagine anyone marrying that man. Come in, I’ll show you your room. Hungry, thirsty?”

“Don’t go to any bother, please. I hadn’t planned on staying. Water is fine.”

“Nonsense. You’ll need a place to rest after your travel and to get ready. Follow me, Ben.”


Night had fallen over North Carolina, but the surf outside pounded and thundered, and jagged shards of searing light punched through the gloom. Ben could not sleep, not a wink. So he rose from his place on the floor beside the sumptuous bed, wearing sweat pants with no shoes or shirt, and stepped out into the massive training room. The owner of the place, Glen Hutchinson, still had not made his presence known.

The floor-to-ceiling glass wall facing east over the raucous ocean drew Ben to stand before it and gaze into the pitch that was punctuated by chaotic whitecaps. It was an awesome vista and Ben drank it in, thinking about how timeless and ageless is the sea, when he gradually became aware of another presence off to his right. Ben turned to see a middle-aged man, also shirtless and shoeless, staring at the ocean. A jagged split of lightning illuminated his craggy features and long, unkempt hair. He turned to face Ben and smiled. It seemed a genuine smile with warmth, and Ben liked it.

“It’s wondrous, don’t you think?”

Ben eyed him askance. “I don’t get to see stuff like this very often.”

“That’s because you’re stuck in the Appalachians. Binnacue, right?”

Ben studied the man—Glen Hutchinson. His bare torso looked as if it were chiseled from a block of iron; rippling cords of muscle stood out in relief across the man’s thick chest. His neck appeared to be an extension of his back; the jaw, set and square; receding hairline with gray at the temples. Ben guessed him to be in his mid-forties, but he could have been in his sixties just as easily. “Yeah, Binnacue, Pennsylvania.”

Ben turned to face Hutchinson. “Why don’t we cut the crap and you tell me why you dropped one-hundred large to get me here?”

“You’re a fighter—”

“Was a fighter.”

“No. It’s in your blood. You’re a fighter.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“I saw your last fight.”

Ben said nothing, glaring bullets at the man. “I saw what you did to your opponent.”

“I killed him. What about it?” he growled.

“It isn’t that you killed him, it’s how you killed him. I’ve never seen a kick move so—”

“Fuck off!” Ben turned away from the window and away from the lunatic that wanted to dredge up all the horrible memories.

Powerful fingers clutched Ben’s shoulder. “Hold on. Let me make you a proposal.”

Ben shook himself free. “What?”

“Let’s you and I fight.”


Hutch dropped silently into a cross-legged seat on the floor. “We fight. You win, you get my estate. I win and…”

“And what?”

“That’s it! I win.”

Ben shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Sit with me for a minute.” Ben paused, staring at the man, shrugged, and then sat across from him. The two men stared at each other while the weather beyond the glass wall grew in intensity.

“Do you know me, Ben?”

“Why would I?”

“Exactly. Why would you? I’ve made it a point my entire life to stay out of the public eye.”

“So what?”

“I’m not bragging when I say this Ben: I’m the best hand-to-hand fighter in the world.”

Ben stared at Hutch for a beat, then two, then he laughed; a sharp bark of a laugh that was more derision than humor. “You really are nuts.”

Hutch stared at him. He stood abruptly, water flowing upwards. Ben stood as well. “My proposal is on the table. You have until tomorrow at this time to take it or leave. One more thing, Ben…”


“It’s to the death.”

“You… what?”

“What do you say?”

Just then Brenda stepped into the room, clad only in a man’s dress shirt, and Ben saw her as inhumanly beautiful. “Glen, we should think about evacuating. The storm—”

“Forget the storm, Brenda.” She seemed to shrink within herself a bit at his retort, but yes, the storm outside was intensifying.

“I want her.” Brenda gasped.

Hutch stared at Ben. Then, “Okay. You win, you get Brenda and my estate. I’ll be dead anyway so who the hell cares. We go at this time tomorrow.”

“Let’s go now.” Ben began rolling his shoulders and other light stretching. Hutch immediately dropped into a left fighting stance, a gruesome smile planted on his face. He began circling Ben slowly, measuring each footstep.

“My attorney already has the proposal I made to you drafted and ready to go. You win and you get it all.”

Ben responded by lunging then backing immediately out of range. Hutch laughed. “Damn you’re quick boy.” A blast of thunder punctuated Hutch’s observation. The skies were beginning to go from pitch black to steel gray and the wind ballooned to a constant roar.

Hutch moved in, arms tucked in to his sides, hands up, palms out; classic Muay Thai, daring Ben to strike. The man’s shins were shiny with scar tissue and Ben knew to avoid those else he’d be clubbed senseless. Hutch jacked up his front knee and lunged; Ben slapped the knee and side-stepped. Hutch followed with a chop that was masked, but Ben saw it coming and ducked, sweeping his foot out to hook Hutch’s back leg.

It was like hooking a stanchion.

Hutch leaped over the hook and flashed a back-kick aimed at Ben’s head; he rolled away from it, then leapt high, whipping a spinning heel hook kick at Hutch’s head, who countered with a forearm block. That hurt Ben more than Hutch and he staggered as he landed awkwardly.

Hutch surged in throwing calculated, precise strikes that Ben was able to block, but the blows were powerful and fast. One slip and Ben would be out of it.

Which maybe wasn’t such a bad thing.

Hutch leaned left, Ben launched himself straight up with his left knee striking squarely under Hutch’s jaw. The crack drew a gasp from Brenda and left Hutch reeling backward. Ben bolted in on Hutch and slammed both elbows on either side of Hutch’s neck, dropping him to his knee, but then he rapid-fired two hard strikes into Ben’s right knee.

Searing pain erupted in Ben’s damaged knee and he fell backward. Both men hesitated, collecting themselves, when the storm exploded seemingly right over their heads.

The glass wall was blasted into shards by the thundering sea, inundating the entire training room and engulfing all three in a surging tide that hammered them first against the wall of the house and then yanked them mercilessly out to sea, their little drama dwarfed by the unimaginable fury of the storm.

Ben battled to break the surface of the raging sea, bursting through with a gasp and sputter. He struggled to tread water against the tides and his ruptured knee. But he was able to clear his vision and take stock a bit.

Perhaps one hundred feet away from him, someone was struggling to swim, and judging by the splash, it was Hutch. Ben began side-stroking toward the man who was no longer splashing. As he hove into view, Ben could see streamers of blood mingling with the whitecaps and Hutch’s head barely breaking the surface. Then his head sank and didn’t rise again.

The house was utterly demolished, debris littering the sea all around Ben, and he latched onto timber and slow-kicked himself to shore where he found Brenda, barely alive with a jagged chunk of timber sticking out of her chest and a glittering shard of glass protruding from where her eye should have been.

Ben crawled on shore, aided by waves that battered him and flattened him to the sand. He raised his head, roughly wiped hair from his eyes. “I won, you lunatic bastard. I won.”

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WU! Anthologies: Dimensions of Mystery

A cop killer. A child witness. A soda thief. A female detective. An omniscient sleuth.

All are waiting for you within the pages of Dimensions of Mystery.

Journey through the many dimensions of the mystery genre in this collection of stories from the devious minds of the talented writers of Writers Unite!


  • Rylee Black
  • R. R. Brooks
  • Rachel Ford
  • Maggie Foster
  • Caroline Giammanco
  • Brianna Lambert
  • Kenneth Lawson
  • Angela Lovelace
  • Lynn Miclea
  • Susan Staneslow Olesen
  • Otilia Pricope
  • D. A. Ratliff
  • Daniel Craig Roche
  • Megan Russ
  • L. T. Waterson.

Pre-sale date announced soon!

Submissions for our fourth anthology, Dimensions of Science Fiction are underway right now. Details Here