Flash Fiction Friday (late, as usual)

Not really a raft, no, but--come on. Use your imagination.

There was only water, and then, a small raft.

It began as a speck in the persimmon fanfare of sunset, barely distinguishable from the dips of waves. She watches without watching, without realizing she's watching, until the speck no longer fades. Becomes more than play of shadow in a world too golden to be real. More than a figment of starvation, dehydration. She blinks. It's still there.

Calico Skies

Cannot refuse Ms. Monkey an invitation, now can I? And why would I want to? Fun, short prompts, 500-max words... Why not?

The weather has transformed, and I with it. No more Caribbean sunshine, no more tropical heat, no more happy days. The sky has turned the color of mud, darker--almost black--chunks where the loaded clouds bulge. My edges are dark, too, with anger and hate.

On an island where rain comes in warm five-minute bucketfuls, where the blue bowl of the sky never fades to more than slate, this is the storm of the century. The millennium. The Christian era. The storm of all time, past and future.

And yet the rain doesn't come. The wind, which never stops in these Windward Islands, is still. The rain and the wind are waiting--for me? Or am I waiting for them? The set of knives lies on the counter, gleaming; bars of polished violence at rest. I finger the edge of a wide blade. It's sharp. It's ready.

I'm ready, too.