It’s a grey, damp day here in the UK with heavy rain forecast for most of the day. I’m on dog-care duties today, and with an eight month old puppy to keep occupied, I shall resign myself to getting wet in an effort to divert her from mischief. Still, apart from the lovable mutt, there’s always Friday Fictioneers to brighten the day.
Friday Fictioneers invites a 100 word (or thereabouts) story in response to a weekly photographic prompt. The beach is patrolled each week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for which we are all suitably grateful.
The flotilla dotting the horizon had left the shoreline littered with trailers, trolleys, boxes… the detritus used for transporting the most-prized valuables from their luxury villas to the hired boats.
Jake smiled. So easy; just a few veiled hints… an ‘unconfirmed rumour’ inspired by the mangy mutt hanging around his barn and the Grockles had panicked.
Time now to salvage what they’d left behind.
A low rumble disturbed the now deserted beach, and he turned.
He froze, noticing as though in slow motion the flecks of foaming spittle that flew into the air as the dog launched itself towards him.