Writing fiction

Writing to the cliffhanger

It was a chilly day, dry but overcast, puddles all that remained of last night’s storm.  We decided to go for a walk on the towpath, the lake to our right, the canal on our left, great blue herons in the trees overhead.


We made our way north, toward Princeton when, off to our left, beyond the canal, on the far side of the canal, we noticed a series of long white tarps, dozens of them, stretched over half-round frames, looking something like this.


You might assume that we had stumbled upon a nursery.  But we know this area well.  For nearly forty years we have hiked along the towpath, canoed on the canal and driven the surrounding roads.  Nurseries do not appear overnight.  Or do they? We backtracked to the crossing in Kingston and made our way along the far side of the canal.  My wife counseled caution, but I pushed ahead.  Next time, if there is a next time, I swear I will take her advice.  Arriving at the first of the white structures, I let myself in.


It was quiet… too quiet.  I peeked into a private space in back.  That’s when I noticed the pods.


I couldn’t stop myself.


The pod screamed.  Space aliens rushed in to investigate.  They captured the missus!


To be continued…


3 thoughts on “Writing to the cliffhanger

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