It’s time for another one hundred word flash-fiction challenge. The mystery writer Veronica Cline Barton and I both wrote a story based on the photograph above that I snapped this weekend in Augusta, Georgia. We did this as an exercise to energize our storytelling a few weeks ago and it was super fun, so here we are again.
My husband was working up there because of The Masters golf tournament so I cruised up and joined him to have a date night away from home. Yay! Don't get all excited y'all, I didn't get to see Tiger slay his demons. Wish I had.
We enjoyed a fabulous meal at a local joint called Fuse in downtown Augusta on Saturday night. If you drink craft beer, bespoke cocktails, like to hang out with a hip and laid back crowd and nom-nom yummy food, seriously don’t miss it. My limoncello martini was incredible!
There is a ton of history in that city, but one of my favorite spots is the Savannah River Canal. It is so striking and dramatic as the sun sets to see these incredible factory structures from the park across the water. Sibley Mill and Confederate Powder Works (Read more here) or paste into your browser https://www.nps.gov/nr/travel/augusta/augustacanalindustrialdirstrict.html
I hope you enjoy reading our stories as much as we did writing them. Until next time, Find your Peace, Love, Hustle, then Read or Write. Xox Bibiana
A Life Lost © 2019 by Veronica Cline Barton
My broken arches stare at the world I once knew. Jasmine laced air, Model-T drives, the rush to lick the last drip of ice cream off a sugary cone. Paddle wheels splashed in the river so blue, exploring the worlds I’ll never see.
“One day,” I said, as I sat in my chair, fading into the world of numbers, accounts, and graphs that tugged at my brain, draining the coffers of my heart and soul.
The years went by, promises unkept, until one day I didn’t bother to look. And so, I faded into the abyss of nothingness.
Ghosts in the Machine © 2019 by Bibiana Krall
Time animates to dance with phantoms of blue-collar stiffs. Eerie mystery hangs like smoke over the linked, pulley chains.
Smokestacks and red-clay hold court to legions of swallows and wrens, as silos rust and wither under the heat of unforgiving sun. There’s no bustle, scent of oil or turpentine to taint this river wild. Wisps linger of who haunted this landmark, when illustrious visionaries soiled sacred ground. Still as a tomb, this paradox brought odes, wealth and fame.
One thing most certain––this believer claims, if you listen closely you can hear the whistle of an old steam train.
