Daily Post Prompt: Island

LIGHTHOUSE WITH FOGThe fog’s especially heavy tonight. I can’t see three feet past the door, so I guess it’s a good time to stay inside and write this letter. The lighthouse on the island has sounded the foghorn every two minutes for hours now.

I haven’t been back to the island since that night. In some ways, I wish I had moved away when you did. I’m sure it’s a lot easier on you not having to look out across the water and see that island every day. I know the spot is overgrown now, but I can still pick it out as clearly as if we’d left a marker. And hearing that blasted horn blow every time the fog moves in really gets on my nerves.

Tonight it’s as thick out there as it was the night we buried him. I often wonder what would have happened if the fog had lifted in time for someone to see us digging the grave. But, of course, that wasn’t likely to happen. Once the dratted stuff moves in, it clings to us like a shroud for hours on end.

I wish you were sitting here with me, sharing a bottle of our favorite whiskey. I hate being alone with my thoughts. I’m always chilled and shaky when there’s fog. It feels as if something’s choking me. I wonder if that’s how he felt as we tightened that rope around his neck until he stopped breathing. I know if I could hear your voice now, you’d tell me to stop being so fanciful.

I wish you were here with me. I hate fog.


To participate in this prompt, visit The Daily Post.



Friday Fictioneers – 10/11/13 — ‘Curtain Call’

This Week’s photo prompt is from Sandra Crook:
My story is below:



Since the earthquake, the amphitheater’s rubble. Few seats intact – and the stage – where ….

Worming my way around boulders, over loose rock, I descend to the stage.

Today, the wind mourns through here, but that night it was deadly still – as was the audience – awaiting the climax of the murder scene.  I was afraid – but I had to do it.

I can feel now the weight of the dagger I used to replace the fake one.  I plunged it deep – just as the world around us came apart.  Falling on top of me, his body took the boulder that would have killed me.


Hurry on over to Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ site and get into the act.