It's been kind of a crazy week so my usual Wednesday post, or my participation in Nicole's (her blog: HERE) and Carrie's (her blog: HERE) Wednesday Weekly Writing Prompt, has been put off until today.
Once again the rules: Use the picture in the story, 500 word maximum (I stretched the limit with this story...I think I used 498 words...), there's a one-week time limit, and the story MUST contain the following randomly chosen words:
Froth
Sole
Gallery
Gallery
Warship
Motorcycle
Here's what I came up with this week.
The Corner Of Vine & 85Th
The gallery of on-lookers told Stella and her partner
Charlie that they were nearing the scene of the accident as the pair maneuvered
the ambulance through the busy downtown streets. Faces on the spectators said
it all. They were both horrified at the scene that lay before them, but
relieved to hear the blaring sound of the ambulance’s siren as it came to a
stop at the corner of Vine and 85th.
“Oh hell,”
Stella groaned as the crowd parted and they spotted their victim, or what was
left of him. “Looks bad.”
“Yeah, nice
way to start a shift, huh?” Charlie said as he parked the van and opened
the door. The ambulance lights illuminated the trees across from where the
accident took place. Clouds still hung low after depositing their liquid contents
on a city in desperate need of a bath. But no amount of water could wash away
the view that met these two public servants as they gathered their emergency
medical kids and ran toward the single man lying at grotesque angles on the wet
pavement.
Stella reached
the doomed rider first and she knew any attempts to save a life were futile.
Comfort would be the sole gift she could offer this man. She knelt at his side.
“Sir,”
Stella said with a mixture of reassurance and authority. “My name is Stella
Johnson. I’m an EMT with the city. Please do not try to move. We’re here to
help.” Stella watched the rider’s chest under a ripped leather jacket rise and
fall slowly and she heard raspy breaths emanate from the man’s cracked helmet.
He couldn’t move, even if he wanted, Stella thought as blood from a compound
fracture in his right leg formed a froth as it mixed with the rainwater being
dragged by gravity toward the street’s storm drain.
Charlie
joined his partner and began to open his medical kit as gawkers hoped these two
public officials could perform a miracle.
“What a
mess,” Charlie whispered so only Stella could hear. “Must have skidded in the
rain and dumped his bike there,” Charlie said as he motioned to the curb at the
other side of the street. “You can see where the bike hit the lamppost then
flipped.” Charlie pointed to the mangled remains of something that was once a
beautiful motorcycle. Stella could just make out what looked like a warship
painted on the dented gas tank, the only thing left of the bike’s custom paint job.
“He must
have been flying,” Charlie said. “Damn shame…”
As
the two went to work, the rider tried moving his arm to his helmet. “Whoa,
there,” Stella said as she stopped the man from raising the plastic shield.
“Let me do that.” Stella slowly lifted the bloodied shield and saw his tired
eyes. They did not meet hers, but stared off toward a light at the end of the
street. Stella followed the man’s gaze and wondered if he saw what she saw.
