The orchestra had lulled the audience with a sweet adagio before the violins began to reach the crescendo, urgent in tone and tempo.
The music swelled towards the climax; the audience, enveloped in its energy, anticipated a tumultuous finale.
The sound of the exploding bomb mingled with the last notes.
Jan lives in the Riverland of South Australia where abundant wine helps with the creative process.
The smoke was so thick that I couldn’t breathe. Pieces of metal were everywhere. The room was covered in red liquid. I looked at my hands and screamed with terror. My whole body was aching. I had never experienced anything like this.
I will never make toast with ketchup again.
Sara wrote this story.
Editor’s Note: I really wanted to title this “Catoastrophe”, but that would have spoiled the reveal!
He called me at work. “The house is flooding!” he said, then laughed.
I rushed home, panicking. He was wading knee-deep through black sludge in the living room. “It’s crude oil!” he said. “It’s coming in through the bathtub! We’re rich!”
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have lit that celebratory cigarette.
This story was based on the prompt “it’s crude” at TypeTrigger.
Two men ran for the exit.
“Wait!” said Edgelow. “We can’t leave yet.”
“It’s gonna blow!” cried Thicke.
“Wait…” said Edgelow. “Three, two…”
He kicked the doors open, grabbed Thicke by the arm, and leapt.
The building exploded. As they flew through the air, Edgelow mugged for the watching cameras.