Her eyes are barely open while 4:03 burns red through the dark.

Legos bite her heel on the way to the kitchen, but she doesn’t stop.

“Circle orange, pwease.”

The tiny one, so much energy, much too early.

The baby had just gone down. Twenty minutes, maybe.

The fridge light hits her hard. She squints and reaches in, finding the orange by feel… her partial snooze button. The weight of it… cold and smooth, fits into her palm like old routine.

Behind her, tiny feet stand, still waiting.

She peels fast, quiet, and efficient.

The skin splits and the smell hits… bright, sharp; and awake in a way she is not.

She pulls the slices apart, one by one. She lays them out, into a smile she doesn’t quite yet feel, on the dinosaur plate.

She turns, offers, and then silence.

Too much of it.

The storm came quicker than expected.  Mouth open, no breath yet, just the shape of it.  His face crumples before the sound even arrives.

“Circle orange, mama…”

It breaks.

“I wanted circle orange!”

Too late.

Her stomach drops before the first scream lands.

Whole. He meant he wanted the orange whole, together. So he can peel it apart himself. 

The baby cries before she can move.

Now both of them.

The plate tilts while orange slices slide.

Someone’s sticky fingers. Someone’s wet cheeks. All too loud.

She closes her eyes, just for a second.

Long enough to feel how tired she actually is.

The crying doesn’t stop.

She opens them anyway.

A smile slowly forms, with a sigh released.

She reaches for another one.

Circle orange, this time.

"The storm came quicker than expected," the captain said with a weak grin.
Cherine felt the tempest within her soul churn as violently as the one that was beating upon them. How many times had she tried to warn him? How many times had she suggested a different course?
But there was no use arguing now. 
As first mate, she had been through her share of voyages and had never seen anything like this... what was the word... condescension. Massive sixty-foot swells building in crescendo and then rolling over the main deck, releasing thousands of tons of raw power like drops in a bucket. As if the Eurasia Container Line, three football fields long, was a toy.
"Sir, how long ago did you send a message to the GMDSS?" Cherine asked.
She held onto the rail as they crested another wave and the ship listed to port. One hand over the other, she closed the gap between her and the captain until she was inches away from his face. Then there was that sickening moment where the ship pitched forward and down they went, plunging into the trough below.
"Sir, how long ago did you send out the distress call?" 
The captain turned to meet her gaze. His look said it all. There was no help from the GMDSS, the Coast Guard, or any other maritime emergency personnel. Conditions had deteriorated too much to risk it.
"We're on our own Santos, but we'll ride this thing out. Our lady's got strong bones and seasoned crew. Just keep her pointing into the heart of Neptune's fury."
Cherine saw the nearly seventy foot wall of water approaching and the horror curled up from her gut all the way to her throat, threatening to choke her.
He wasn't wrong about them having a chance if the ship continued to steer straight into the waves and if it didn't tilt past the point of return. But the thought of a neglected anti-rolling tank plagued her. Worse, the extreme incline caused by those rogue billows sent the oil to the back of the engines. It was highly likely the machine would kill itself.
But all of this--all of it--could have been avoided if the Captain had just listened to her about the maritime reports. They could have easily shifted course a couple of degrees and weathered the hurricane in a safe port, or at the very least, not face waves six to seven stories tall.
"Captain," she said, keeping her voice calm. "We need to give the call to stand by for heavy weather."
"Nonsense!" he said. "We'll make it."
"It's not worth the risk! The engine could blow and it would be too late."
"I've been through worse."
Overruled, she resigned herself to the inescapable truth. She had gambled, despite the warning signs, to place her safety into the hands of this man. And now, she watched in real-time as her life slipped away to pay her debt of reason.
But that wasn't what caused her hands to tremble. She had brought her eighteen-year-old niece with her. The daughter of her late sister, raised by her own mother, in the sweet pinnacle of youth.
She had fought bitterly with her mother about Grace coming to join the crew.
"It's good money, Mom. She needs to get out of this nowhere town."
"It's dangerous. You told me yourself how bad management keeps up with things."
Furious, Cherine went behind her mother's back and told Grace that if she stayed with grandma, it was nothing but a dead end.
The irony of her words slapped her in the face now as she tilted to and fro with the ship all the way down to the crew decks. 
When she entered, she saw her niece huddled by a trash can. Grace looked up.
"I g-got sick," she said. Cherine looked at those soft, brown eyes, still young enough to say, "Tell me what to do, Aunty," without saying a single word.
Oh God, Cherine's spirit groaned.
She leaned down, one side of her body braced against the built-in seating to balance herself. Gently, she held Grace's face and wiped it with the palm of her hands. There were tears mixed with a few spackles of vomit but Cherine didn't care. None of that mattered. 
"Sweetie, it's time to put on the Gumby suit I showed you."
"But the Captain--"
"Is out of his mind. This ship is going to break and I want you off it when it does."
"What about you?" Grace asked.
Cherine set her jaw tight. "I'm responsible for the safety of this crew and I'll see it through until Captain gives the order. Someone has to lead them."
"But--"
"We don't have time, Grace!" 
She pulled Grace to her feet and led her to the workstation where bright, orange suits were stored. She helped Grace zip up the front and fastened the velcro patches along the wrists and ankles. Then she held Grace by the hand, like she had done so many times before as child, and guided her upstairs.
"The ship's motor will give out and we'll feel like dead weight on the water. We may have minutes before the waves start to roll us over. You need to be on the free-fall lifeboats. If worse comes to worst, jump. But that is absolutely dead-last, the ship is sinking at that point. Got it?"
Cherine took one more look at her beloved niece. She was not a praying woman. But in that moment, her spirit groaned again and pleaded with God to have mercy. 
O God of my mother. I know I don't deserve for you to answer me, but please. I ask this for Grace. Must my sins bring her down to the depths?
In that moment, the ship shuttered, sighed, and gave up its last breath.
O God, if you will, you can deliver us from what's to come.

Welp. I tried 3 times with ideas for this prompt. I also tried to plan it out then threw all those plans out the window. I hope this makes sense and you enjoy it.

If you feel like it listen to Her -- live by Alen Jeynrod and Ascent by Yehezkel Raz and Claudio Constantini for an epic soundtrack!

The storm came quicker than expected. Rain drummed against my skin as her hand slipped out of mine. The thumping of her shoes got softer and softer as she left me on the bridge. 

I stood there letting it soak me to my bones, an overwhelming sadness filling me up inside. Her words, bitter in my mouth.

“You can’t love me. You’re not what I need.” I whispered those words under my breath, cradling my head in my hands. The rain had soaked all the way through my coat and onto my leathery wings.

The real reason she left was because I’m a monster. 

The rain had plastered my hair to my forehead and horns. I swished my long thin tail around, pulled my coat tighter around me and sulked into the streets that glowed with flashing neon signs. An earthy smell surrounded me as the rain soaked into the pavement. Thunder rumbled above me as lightning flashed.

A couple laughed and ran past me holding a jacket over their heads, running into a store with smiles on their faces. Juni used to be like that.

We would run through the streets with no care of what went on around us. She was so beautiful and wild with her tangled up brown hair and blue eyes. Oh, my heart screamed in agony. If only I could have had one more dance in the rain with her. Then the memories of her would fade away and I’d be at peace. If only I hadn’t hurt her.

I wanted to show her I would protect her. That I cared. I was so stupid. 

I knew it might break her, but there was something inside of me that wanted to show her. To prove to her that I was worth her love.

I slinked down into an ally. Reaching a corner far back in the darkness I looked up at the grey sky. I knew this storm was coming. That we’d fall apart at some point. I snapped out my wings and beat them in rhythm. Slowly I lifted out of the puddles forming on the stone ground. The stone walls around me blurred as I neared the roofline. I wiped the tears out of my eyes. 

Still flapping my wings, I ran across the roof tops. Screaming I took a big jump and shot into the air. I pressed my hands against the sides of my head. Images of her twirling, laughing, hugging me danced around my head. I scanned the ground below. So many people…

“I’m so sorry Juni.” Tears were flowing down my face now. “I should have never burned your village.” 

The flame inside me grew, consuming me inside. The little bit of sanity I had left started to fade. Sparks flew out of my mouth igniting a house below. “I’m sorry I’m doing it again.” 

The sun was just coming out as breathed flames on those in the streets.

-A.H. Bradbury

(using side characters from a current work-in-progress so I don't know how much sense this makes BUT here we go)

It was time.

Kinich used the large pole in his hands to press his raft off the island coast. He balanced on sandaled feet as the tide rocked his raft back and forth. The waters were anxious this night—a storm would come in the morning.

He reached down to pat at the waistband of his pants, feeling the rustle of the parchment tucked under his shirt, over the scales of his stomach. He had one letter to deliver to a cave on the island of Etzaloc. It was simple enough.

Never mind that he sailed in the middle of the night to avoid discovery, or that he had only been to this part of Etzaloc once, a child stowing away on a grown man’s secret mission. Let alone that the intended recipient, his beloved, was an exile and enemy of the empress.

Rosalva needed to know. Kinich shook his head, pressing his pole to the ground again and again, navigating by the stars overhead and the coastline at his left hand.

She needed to know he’d done all she had asked of him on the night of her exile—set up a plan for governance in her absence, mended roofs, brought new sitting-mats into the schoolhouse, cared for their island. She must know that he had done everything he could to plead her case to the empress. Yet still he had no choice but to write the words nestled in the middle of the letter he carried. 

The empress refuses to speak of you…you cannot return.

Hours later, the pebbled beach crunched beneath his feet as he stepped from the raft onto the pebbled beach of Etzaloc and secured his raft. Sparing little more than a glance backward at the growing thunderclouds, he trudged up the rugged pathway. The southern side of this island was isolated, bare, divided by mountains from the rest.

Was it thundering in the mainland, too, where Rosalva had been taken, or had she been taken so far inland that not even the ocean could reach her?

Kinich lost his foothold on the steep ground, catching a protruding root in his hand to steady himself. Doubts crept into his mind.

What if the old methods of delivery no longer worked?

The storm came quicker than expected, a single thunderclap splitting open the heavens for the rain to pour down. Kinich bowed his head, moving as swiftly as he could until he ducked into the cave.

This was it. He shook the water from his tangled braids and surveyed the area before him. His childhood memory returned—the low ceiling, rocky fingers reaching down to grasp him, the pictures drawn on every single corner of the wall. They were foreign pictures, half-Vidanzi, half of his own kind. Tattoos covered the bodies of scaly creatures. Their god Matokan’s wives stood over the bowing Vidanzi Chair. Red ribbons wrapped around a stone tower. These were treacherous images for those of both countries.

Rain poured down outside the cave, a steady sheet of water blocking his view. Kinich crouched in the furthest corner, preparing to rest for a time. He would leave the letter behind and set sail the moment the storm let up.

But he could not let the letter go, not yet. He pulled it from the waistband of his pants and dried it, gently, the damp parchment somehow forming his sole connection to Rosalva.

He faded in and out of sleep, waking to the shivering of his scales in the wind. Dreams had only begun to cling to his eyelids when a noise broke through. He sat up, suddenly, listening through the waning wall of rain.

A human form burst through the mouth of the cave. Kinich scrambled to his feet, preparing for a fight.

The Vidanzi man, pale as the distant moon, threw the cloak off from his head. He reached into the pack on his back. A flame sputtered into life, and the man’s eyes widened as they caught sight of Kinich. Foreign words spilled from his lips.

Kinich shook his head, shrugging. “I do not speak your tongue.”

Confusion crossed the other man’s face. Kinich stood tensely in the silence. Who else could know of this cave, besides Rosalva’s family or her deceased father’s friend from across the sea? He drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Rosalva?”

Like the cave, the name crossed the borders of both countries. The Vidanzi man nodded, eyes filled with understanding. He spoke again, a string of foreign words ending with her name again. A question filled the air. How do you know Rosalva?

How could he show the man? Kinich hesitated, and then formed a heart with his hands. “Rosalva.”

The man smiled.

Somehow, in his soul, Kinich felt that he could trust this man. He extended his damp parchment, his sole hope for reaching Rosalva. The man took the letter in one hand, and handed him his torch. Kinich stood beside him as he dropped his pack to the ground, knelt, and placed the letter inside.

What were the odds that they would stumble upon the cave the same night? Kinich cast his eyes upward. Praise be, Matokan.

The Vidanzi man tightened his pack and then sat on the ground, reaching upward for his torch. Kinich returned it and sat beside him, back to the wall, as the rain poured outside the cave. The storm raged on. They made feeble attempts at conversation, more difficult because of the language barrier and the dim lighting. 

In the morning, the men parted with gestured goodbyes, knowing little more about each other than before. Kinich whistled as he set sail back toward home, his heart relieved. Rosalva had reached the continent safely, and soon she would know that he loved her, that he waited for her, that someday they would be together again.

Flight 505

I was walking through the Brisbane terminal, counting the days until my retirement, dreaming about the Pacific Islands cruise that Jane and I had booked for July. I had two more months of flying and then we would be away.

I overheard my co-pilot in front of me say to a stewardess, ‘I’m flying with that geriatric, Captain Peters today. That’s sure to be a thrill a minute.’

I slowed my pace, so he wouldn’t suspect that I had heard him, as we walked towards our 747. I mumbled under my breath, ‘These young upstarts don’t know the first thing about flying. They are all just computer geeks, not pilots.’

On board, I pressed the intercom button. ‘Good afternoon. This is Captain Jim Peters. Welcome to flight 505 to Darwin. We should be taxiing out in about fifteen minutes and will arrive in Darwin in approximately four hours. Sit back, relax and enjoy your flight.’

I introduced myself to my newbie co-pilot, Andrew, as we went through our flight checks. ‘I’m not happy with the oil pressure on the number two engine. It may need a new filter. I’m hesitant to take her up.’

My know-it-all co-pilot assured me that things are done a little differently these days, and said he had seen that anomaly before, with no issues.

Not wanting to reinforce his geriatric image of me, I conceded, so we taxied down the runway and were soon airborne.

One hour from Darwin airport, the oil filter bypass light came on, and number two engine started vibrating. I grabbed the intercom, as Andrew’s eyes bulged and his face paled.

‘Attention passengers and crew, we are experiencing some turbulence. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened.’

The vibration increased. Usually bypassing the filter and allowing dirty oil into the engine, instead of no oil, is sufficient to keep the engine running until we land. However, with the increased vibration, and the oil pressure still dropping, I suspected the problem was more serious than just a blocked filter. I shut down number two engine in case it seized. We could fly on three engines, but Andrew didn’t seem convinced and was breathing fast. I wasn’t in the mood for babysitting, and was annoyed that I had listened to him instead of following my gut.

Things went from bad to critical when another filter bypass light lit up the cockpit. The vibration returned and I was then forced to shut down number one engine also. With both engines on one side of the plane out, the jet started acting a little drunk.

‘What can we do, Captain Peters? Are we going down?’ Andrew was panicking, which didn’t help.

‘No son. I am going to fly the plane,’ I answered too sarcastically.

I had a lot of work to do with the ailerons, flaps and roll-assisting spoilers. I had my hands full doing things my co-pilot had never seen, but when I gave him instructions, he carried them out precisely. I couldn’t have flown the plane without his help, so I was sorry I’d misjudged him.

‘Darwin Tower this is flight 505 from Brisbane. We have lost two engines and the landing gear is jammed.’

This last piece of information I had been reluctant to say aloud and cause Andrew more distress.

The storm came quicker than expected. We had seen it from afar, but thought we would have safely landed before it hit Darwin. It had been wishful thinking. I was sure now that we would not survive the landing, as both of us worked franticly, trying to control the swaying aircraft.

I added, ‘We are coming in from the south, and in approximately twelve minutes will attempt a belly landing. Please clear the runways and have the emergency crews on standby.’

‘Roger, 505. Not sure if it means anything to you, but we have guys here already praying for a safe landing.’

I was coping okay until I heard those words. My mother’s voice arrested me, as if she was in the co-pilot’s chair.

‘Son, you must put your life into the hands of Jesus. Repent, and call out to Him before it is too late.’

We were coming towards the runway as slowly as possible without stalling, knowing we were attempting the impossible. Fear slithered up my spine like an icy snake, and my heart pummeled my rib-cage. Violent crosswinds and blinding rain, tossed the massive aircraft off its approach.

When only two hundred metres above the tarmac, we heard the groan of the landing gear coming down. We stared at each other, mouths gaping. I will never know how that happened. We landed smoothly; impossible with two engines down, and in such a wild storm. I know I did not land that plane.

Amidst cheers from the tower we heard, ‘Congratulations, Captain Peters. That was a landing for the history books!’

I had no words.

I taxied to the gate and with a deep sigh, shut down the remaining engines. Clapping and cheering came from the passengers, even with no knowledge of the landing gear miracle. After a long silence, Andrew stood to leave and asked me if I was coming.

‘I’ll join you in a few minutes, Andrew. And thank you. I couldn’t have handled this crippled beast without your help.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sure you could have, Sir.’ He smiled. ’You’re a legend, Captain Peters. It has been an honour to fly with you. I will regret for the rest of my life that I didn’t listen to you about the oil filter. If you were not such a skilled pilot, I could have been responsible for hundreds of deaths. I am so very sorry. I have a lot to learn.’

When he left and closed the door of the cockpit, I dropped my head and whispered, ‘Oh Jesus, thank you. What a fool I have been.’

I cried like a lost little boy, finally seeing the way home.