Woven Words

Candle/Light by Tommia Wright

Today’s item is inspired by two parts: one, Casz’s great challenge during workshop last night, and two, Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge. This is based on photo number #31. I’ll admit surprise at getting this done in 500 exact – title included.

Waves, Goodbye

The oceans rained upon the passersby as blue turned blood red in the eastern skies. Natalia and Anya crouched by the sea wall, others heeded the tower’s call. ‘Aim for high ground,’ was the order sounded, as whistles sang, church bells rang and trolleys filled to capacity – the populace exodus of the mother city.

Natalia shielded her child, eyes stung from the wind. Somewhere, somehow, an escape would be found. Metal against metal, screams, screeches and caws grated their ears, sharp as tiger’s claws.

The water fell harder, felt hotter somehow. Anya’s breathing halted now. Pushing her way through the crowd, thunder crackling from the red clouds, Natalia found refuge under the stone bridge.

A bony hand grasped her wrist. She was too afraid, too tired, too angry to resist. A homeless soul – who else could it be – shoeless and dressed so shabbily, led the way to a tunnel within. In the limited light, she saw a half-toothless grin.

The sounds from above grew faint, the further they went, led by their saint. Anya accepted a small rag doll secured in a cigar box tucked into the wall. The vagabond turned on a flashlight as Natalia’s eyes took in the sight.

It was almost like home – minus windows, carpet and such. Yet this community below ground held so much. A scent of lavender, given to Anya with care and soon the child drifted to sleep, her dreams taking her who knew where.

Natalia accepted some coffee served in an old tin. Vladimir spoke of the new world about to begin.

First was the flood, then the promise of fire – either way now, the world suffered the Maker’s ire. What was found would be lost; greed, gluttony, guilt and grief were what the lives would cost.

But here below, for the ‘crazies’ to know, a new Eden could possibly grow, beginning with a helping hand, of rescuing a few to the lower lands.

A cracked music box played, tiny tongs tipping; in the corner of the room, water was dripping. Filling the space – a bed upon crates, a few chipped bowls, cups and plates. A photo of a family loved, lit by a short candle on bricks above.

Vladimir said it had happened before, when the ferries fell through the ocean floor – that’s how he lost those he adored.

‘Forget man’s wars with swords, guns and bombs. To that brutality, most players minced words, killed sons, to the people’s pain were numb.

‘This kind of fight, cooling the day like night, would bring life-takers their death, the hope-deprived breath of life.

‘There were plenty of simple treasures worth more than rubles or gold – the sharing of songs to be sung and stories to be told.

‘Only things needed, other than that, were sleep and rest, in this buried hollow of Vladimir’s nest. Trust the few who knew what to do.

‘The world up above will be washed away, anew, the paths of new Eden covered with dew.’