Friday the 13th is one of the those where we look for bad things to happen. Many consider it unlucky, so they won’t schedule things for today or do anything complicated in fear that it won’t work out.
In my short story, The Warden’s Lantern (working title), Barbara is having one of those days. Here’s a snippet:
“AAAAH!” She threw herself into the wooded and weeded bank next to the two-track as a motorcycle whizzed past her. Her camera dropped out of her hand and swung on its strap down her arm. Her body smashed through briars and dried leaves and she hoped no poison ivy. Tumbling into the brush, her glasses flew off her face. She came to a halt against the trunk of a scraggly tree. Her exposed skin stung in slashes where the briars had cushioned her escape. She muttered unintelligible syllables into the dirt. She squeezed her eyes shut to shove away the pain, then carefully patted the ground for her glasses. Unfortunately, they had landed somewhere not within the swoop of her arm. “Fudge!” Without them, she was as blind as a marble statue. Gingerly, examining every bone to ensure their unbroken state, she pulled herself into a sitting position with her back against the tree. She looked toward the road, but wasn’t even sure that she was looking in the right direction. What was she going to do? Without her glasses she wouldn’t be able to find the two-track, let alone drive home.
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