I was late to the party for Morgen Bailey’s monthly competition this month gone. I missed the September deadline by a day. But it did not stop me from giving it a go as an exercise and sharing with you my offering for the 100 word flash fiction story. The rules are: there is a prompt and also your story must be 100 words exactly, not including the title. The theme for September was the swimming pool.
So taking the challenge, which is a great exercise for writers to tighten their writing and make every word count plus remember it must be complete and not just an excerpt, I got to writing. Read my offering below and I hope you enjoy it. To check out Morgen’s competition you will find her on FB at the link following my story.
The Swimming Pool
The homeowner wanted a new pool and Donald’s gardening company was building it. Today they were digging out the foundation.
Counting steps to the left, Donald sprayed a line marking the edge. He stepped in the next direction and repeated the procedure. Locating the centre of the dig, he sprayed an X.
Once the X spot was dug, he would later bury the body personally, his crew unaware of their boss’s side-line. A side-line which gang-lords paid Donald well. He would build on the grave, like he had with previous jobs.
Donald loved the outdoor life his gardening job provided.
He sat in deep thought. Had he gone wrong? Did he not plan it perfectly? Of course he did. In fact he paid so much attention to every detail that he had not rested for well over six days at first. He believed in free will. He trusted too much his army of angels moaned. Still, what he created, he had done so from love.
Now years on considering his work unfold beneath him, he sat
curious, watching. He liked that woman and man were inquisitive, wanted to know
more of the world about them. Sometimes they tested his patience but more often
than not, they enthralled him. This group that had caught his attention were on
an expedition to find new land. They were clever, they looked to the skies for
guidance. Sometimes watching them move about and interact, their petty
squabbles, their laughter, their joys and sorrows, he wished he was down there
Once he had walked amongst them, so long ago. He held fond
memories of those times, his mother and Joseph and relatives sharing family
time. Carrying from birth the weight of salvation on his shoulders, he did his
best to fit in, to be the son that others took for granted. But his destiny
Now, master of creation, he watched over this latest trek by
a group who believed they knew it all yet how naïve they were of the dangers
the cold lands held. To be close he took on the shape of a frozen landscape of
ice that would make them question was it man or mountain. He liked to tease,
his mischievous side sprinkling out over the world.
Being the Creator, was it better sometimes being the observer rather than being the observed?