Impromptu Short Story Contest Entry - Ten Second Waves

Ordinarily I don't like writing prompts, because I'm usually so focused on my own projects that doing other things takes too much brainpower away from those - a kind of creative procrastination.

However, I'm really enjoying playing around in this new discussion forum. I found their latest little writing contest, to write a story that's 300 words or less, science fiction or fantasy, based on this picture:

This was what I came up with this morning, and since it's non-exclusive rights they have, and they won't let me share my blog yet and won't see this anyway, I have no compunctions about posting it here. Hope you like it! 

Three hundred words or less is really challenging!

Ten Second Waves

“Marry me, kitten! Before the next wave come in…”

“Fool – you broke ma boat! Everthin’ I own’s gone to the fish.”

Tern turned a mournful eye towards the blue and white tip of the top of her houseboat, a single painted daisy on the hull still visible.

“Sorry, Bebe. Wave knocked me over before I could git the anchor down. I’ll park it here; we’ll scavenge when the tide go out – ‘bout ten days.”

Bebe clung to the railing of Tern’s houseboat as the waves every ten seconds swallowed the trees and cattails, and then up and over like a carnival ride – they must be over her boat now. The skyline of Oklahoma City gleamed like shiny broken teeth against the moon that glowed orange in the sunset. Broken, like every other city she’d seen.

“You water-gatherin’, I hope?”

“You think I wanna be without water for two whole weeks? Filter’s back over ther – radio’s down the other end - “Tern gestured towards both sides of the boat. “

Bebe chomped on her wet cigar, her wet dirty brown curls cascading down over her bare brown shoulders. “Whassat? Radio? You got a radio?”

Tern smiled, showing the gap in his back teeth. “You want a preacher? I can hail ‘im fer ya right now. Marry us good ‘n proper.”

Bebe exhaled. “I ain’t heard no radio, not since the Event. What else you git?”

“Anywhere, dahling. Since all the satellites run smack into the moon, my ham radio’s the new Internet. I get stories…I get music…people still out there, somehow.”

“Mnn…all right. I’ll ride with ya. Pull ‘im up.”

Soon Preacher Man Jack’s voice over the little box buzzed out. “Tern…you want her?”

“I do.”

“Bebe…you want him?”

“I does.”

“Yer good. Fix it up right then.”