Prompt: In 300 words, write a scene or beat completely in concrete imagery.

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Lightning jumped down from the storming night sky and cracked along the side of the Antelope. The old sloop-of-war tilted leeward, threatening to dump the men down the deck over the scuppers and into the black, icy depths of the sea. Rain hit the deck violently with a split-splat sound as the crew struggled to secure the riggings, the rope pulled taught around the mooring mast, double wound in an attempt to keep hold. The younger boys scurried to close the gates over the lower deck access. A few of the older men hurriedly tried to roll the powder kegs into the Captain’s quarters, the old man himself up at the wheel, grasping it with all his might. His hands were low, down by his hips, yet he never lost his grip. The rain fell sideways–or had the ship almost capsized? Which was vertical, and which was steady?

The ship heaved leeward, and the men fell to the deck. Hail began to fall, pelting them. The sea was angry. Icy water swept over the deck before dropping out the scuppers. The men clung to whatever was in reach–nets, masts, cannons. The Captain braced himself and clutched the wheel, the sound of his laughter carrying over the sound of the storm. The ship settled with a tremendous whump. The men shook from their perches. The rain fell from the sky again, rather than from the windward side. The ship steadied on the angry waves.

The men were quick to resume their work. Powder keys still rolled across the deck—the older men nested them into the Captain’s quarters, before finally slamming the door shut and dropping the lock-plank. The lower-deck access were gated over, and the younger boys hurried to join the other crew sheltered down in the galley. The Captain never left the wheel, all through the storm, as though him and Neptune had some great debate that needed settled before the dawn.

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Prompt: In 500 words, describe a reflective moment through the eyes of a person who has just lost someone significant. Do not mention the loss explicitly–let the loss inform the description, but do not state the loss outright or tell a story.

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The evening light struggled through the woods. It pushed through the rows of oak and elm, over the fallen leaves and dead twigs and the occasional raccoon out gathering. It bounced off the shore of the lake, scattering tiny reflections over the ripples of the cold water. Autumn had arrived early that year, and the lake was already going dormant. Bluegill and bass swam closer to the bottom, seeking out warmth and shelter among the catfish in the sunken cars along the bottom of the lake.

The dock creaked in the wind coming off the lake. A few leaves jumped up from the rake piles, flipping into the air before landing silently on the surface of the water, creating only the slightest ripple. The smell of burning leaves floated down from the pavilions where the groundskeeper was working. Crickets chirped quietly. Cicadas buzzed.

Across the lake small campfires broke out among the trees, campers enjoying the early arrival of the cool weather. Rocks littered the slope from the campgrounds down to the surface of the lake. A few children played along the top of the slope, occasionally throwing small rocks into the lake. Hotdogs and marshmallows roasted over several of the small campfires, the smell rolling down to the kids near the slope, making them run back to their families around the fires.

The trees near the dock shivered as the evening light fell back across the lake, back towards the campfires, and then past them over the woods and finally the horizon. In the dark the cicadas became louder. The air felt numbing. The lake was silent.

Fireflies appeared up around the pavilion. Their tiny lights puncturing the dark, only to disappear a moment later before reappearing again somewhere new. More fireflies appeared in response, gathering until the area around the pavilion appeared to be sparking quietly. Behind the pavilion the parking lot lights kicked on, buzzing loudly and flooding the parking lot with a harsh yellow light. Moths buzzed around the bulbs of the lights, completely lost within a pointless orbit. They stayed close to the light, occasionally a single moth would make an erratic turn and flit off into the dark into parts and fates unknown, never to be singled out again.

The trashcan by the center light pole overflowed with garbage. Fast food bags spilled out the top and loose soda cans rolled around the lot. It was nearly empty, the day campers and hikers had pulled out and fled when the light had begun to fade. A raccoon poked his head out from under the dumpster near the service road entrance. His eyes caught the light for a moment before the whole creature became a silhouette again. A smaller shadow moved behind the raccoon, a young raccoon following its mother. Together they crept along the edge of the parking lot, the mother picking up small pieces of trash and smelling them. The younger raccoon stayed close to the its mother, keeping in her shadow as they walked along the edge of the darkness.

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