“Timmy hold on!” yelled the Iguana as he ran alongside the cliff trying to find some way to lift his friend up.
But he was just an iguana, what could he do? Timmy was the last of the biters and he had to survive, as an Iguana it was his duty to protect him, it was stupid of him to let Timmy wander so close to the ledge.
“Save me Julio!” Timmy screamed [through his teeth], his voice echoing through the canyon.
Shit, thought the iguana, the regulars could hear and there was nobody in the nearby woods to help them. Suddenly, Julio saw something, it was an enormous chain. He followed it until he reached a tiny house. Hurrying, he scampered into the building and discovered that the chain was connected to a giant machine.
Julio looked around for a switch but couldn’t find anything, perhaps it would be enough. He ran back to the end of the chain and wedged his nose under it, pushing to the ledge where Timmy was still hanging. Finally, he reached the cliff and the giant chain fell and Timmy was able to use it for leverage. But just as Timmy got onto safe ground, Julio was gone and Timmy quickly realized he was surrounded by a mob.
“Your iguana friend is gone boy, and soon so will you.” Timmy tried to run but a giant hand caught him by the wrist and carried him until he was hanging over the ledge. “Any last words?” The man said. But Timmy was staring at the ocean where something was moving. All of a sudden a giant whale flew up out of the water and grabbed Timmy. Nobody knows if he died. Some people say he lived the rest of his life on a distant island biting away.
This is part of a collection of short stories I wrote as a cashier.
A spontaneous story written based on the following prompts given to me by my coworkers:
Britney – Denim Lady – Scuba Divers – Cactus
When Britney heard she would be working with the famed “Denim Diver” she was elated. The woman was a legend. She had practically invented the modern scuba tank.
They were to meet for a dive at the tip of a large peninsula on the west coast. Britney had heard rumors of some unusual crustacean activity near the peninsula and she assumed that to be the reason behind their meeting location. When Britney arrived, she stepped out of her car to greet the Denim-clad woman, who was already dressed head to foot in her unique denim diving suit, but Britney stopped in her tracks when she saw what the Denim Lady was holding in her hands.
Planted neatly in a clay pot there was a prickly pear cactus. Britney’s worst fear. Her legs started shaking as she approached the Denim Woman, who wore a ghastly vicious smile.
“Welcome, Britney, we’re so glad you made it.”
“What’s going on.” Britney said nervously, keeping her distance from the awful plant.
“I used to be like you, Britney,” the woman said, “I used to be terrified of the prickly-pear cactus. But then I started wearing denim and it all changed.”
“But what does this have to do with diving?” Britney blurted out in utter confusion.
“That’s what we invited you here for. We are the clan of the prickly-pear cactus. While the plant haunts us, with the protection of denim, we are free to utilize the immense powers it can give us [for diving]. The cactus is our leader and our greatest fear. And we want you to join us.”
Britney was stunned, and honored. She had heard of the clan from a friend of a friend but she hadn’t believed it. It was nonsense, wasn’t it?
Two men approached Britney carrying the traditional denim garb of the clan and Britney slipped on the jacket. Immediate relief. Suddenly she was able to walk up to the plant. And something strange happened. It was almost as if the plant was talking to her. She could feel it. And she knew. She was ready to embrace the power of the prickly-pear cactus.
This is part of a collection of short stories I wrote as a cashier.
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Kendra was feeling
blue. It was
only 3 days ago that
her family’s boat crashed
into the sand dunes of
what they were calling
Pineapple Island. Not
because it had pineapples,
but because they wished
it had pineapples, or
any fruit for that matter.
And yet despite the headache
from malnourishment, and
the pit in her stomach, the
only thing she could think
about was Tommy, the first
boy she had fallen in
love with.
As the sun set on the
third day, Kendra leaned
up against a palm tree
and closed her eyes
remembering the
first time they kissed. She
swore she could hear an
orchestra burst into action,
filling her ears with music,
how she dreamed she could be
back in Orleans, MA sitting
by the same ocean she was
now trapped in, but with Tommy’s
arm around her shoulder.
Suddenly the ground beneath
her began to shake and Kendra
opened her eyes, “What’s happening?”
she shouted to her father who
was standing ankle deep in
the ocean water, looking up
at the island with a look
of horror on his face.
Kendra ran to his side,
almost tumbling from the shaky
ground. Then she could smell the
smoke, and she looked up to
the peak of pineapple island.
A plume of smoke rose up
into the heavens and
red orange burst of
lava spat out of the tip.
A volcano… TBC…
The part of a collection of short stories I wrote as a cashier.
Matthew looked out at the concrete landscape with awe; giant buildings stood like dead trees in a field of dirt and rock and steel. He tried to imagine what great meaning these monstrous towers must have had to his great grandfather. Now they stood as monuments to confusion and regret and nearsightedness.
He looked up and down, taking in the strength of the building. He figured he must be on something like the 30th floor, which was hardly the top, even though much of the exterior had been ripped away by the fierce winds filled with ice and sand.
He knew night would be coming soon, considering how long it had taken him to get to where he was standing. He would probably sleep there, too dangerous to try and get back to the village. Storm clouds could be heard in the distance and he could see them, but storms were so common now, neither the sound or the sight surprised him. An old man in the village had said a few years back, “It’s like living in a world that’s constantly falling apart.” But this was so obvious to the people they laughed when they heard it. Even their steel roofs melted slowly under the regular acid rain.
He was suddenly aware of how long he had been staring, how much he enjoyed looking out over the world. His mother had spent so much time crying about all they had to give up, but Matthew never understood. What were all these things that had to be sacrificed? Food was scarce, but so were the people looking for it. If you were clever enough, you could find it. And emergency water-lines that had been built underground would supply them for at least the next few years. But there were these other things, societies, schools, companies, all these things that existed only as mysteries to be pondered, until they became folklore; like oxidized iron, history dissolving into mythology.
A cold, bitter breeze swept through the floor, and he knew it was about to rain. He took a few steps back from the ledge and turned to look through to the other side. Hardly anything remained, though Matthew had a hard time imagining what could have occupied this space. It was just a maze of steel, on top of more steel. The rain began harshly, but he didn’t notice it, until he heard dripping sound nearby.
He followed the noise slowly, careful not to make any wrong step and fall 30 stories to his death. The dripping was coming from a broken piece of tubing, still suspended from the ceiling. As the water fell, it made a soft patting noise before it collected in a pool on the floor. He quickly discovered that the water was hitting a small plant before it hit the concrete. The sapling was planted in a small wooden box. Its branches stuck out awkwardly, and its roots were poking through cracks in the box. Medium sized leaves clung to the branches with vigor and pride, taunting Matthew in his infirmity.
He knelt down, trying to stay clear of the spatter, and he inspected it. The leaves were so green, and the trunk and branches were a rich brown. He hesitated, but then plunged his hands into the dripping water, lifting the small box. As he raised it slowly, the wet, rotten wood disintegrated in his fingers, leaving him with just a handful of dirt and the rich, vibrant tree in the center.
He knew instantly the importance of this discovery and he cursed aloud at himself for his impatience, his greed. The rain outside began to pick up in intensity, and the winds brought the smell of decay. It was becoming very difficult to see anything, so he set the plant back down in the puddle and began to look for a place to rest until the storm passed.
To be continued…?
This is part of a collection of short stories I wrote as a cashier from 2010-2012. This story in particular began as just a little vignette that I later expanded.
