True to his word, Uncle Joe took the key to his grave. One stormy night of the cousins working together, grunting, taking turns sharing shovels and the casket revealed itself.
The hole was dank and cavernous.
We drew straws.
Which unlucky bastard would do the deed? Open the lid and run hands over old Joe’s decaying corpse, digging through gore encrusted pockets.
I was the loser; but also, the winner. I launched out of that hole, smelling of death—key in my pocket—guns ablazing. The conundrum? What to do with the soil displaced by four dead cousins haphazardly astride Uncle Joe?
By Lisa H. Owens
Just 100 Words
100 Word Stories - November 2022 Photo Prompt
The pre-flight briefing predicted smooth sailing to Bermuda, but a mysterious disturbance had the jet bucking and beverage cart careening.
Flight attendants struggled to wrestle the cart through the aisle without maiming terrified passengers—to reach the aft-galley and stow the beast.
Co-pilot Wilson slammed back the cockpit door. Roared, “Don your life-vests. NOW!"
The cart secured; flight attendants buckled in. Shouted, "Heads down! Grab ankles! Stay low!"
Then they braced and prayed the gatekeeper of the Bermuda Triangle might spare them—their prayers unanswered as the sea swallowed the aircraft in one mighty gulp and licked its salty lips.
Lisa H. Owens
November 2022 - Globe Soup Microfiction Monthly Contest
Keep it simple, Stupid!
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