Another snippet for Sacha Black’s writing prompt—in less than 200 words, a story about a black out.
The boulevard was gridlocked. Panic turned his guts to water. Without a car they’d never get out of the city. If he stayed in the car, he’d never get home. Swearing violently, he eased himself out the door and into the sea of stationary vehicles and deafening klaxons. He ran, as fast as it was possible to run when a million other people were trying to do the same. It wasn’t late, but black clouds that boiled up from the ocean had already blotted out the light. He couldn’t call the baby-sitter to find out whether she’d picked the kids up from school, or just lit out when she heard the news. No signal.
Heart pounding, he ran, pushing and shoving through the faceless crowd. Home. The bridge was chaos. Refusing to stop he ran over the trapped cars, leaping from roof to bonnet to roof, refused to look at the waves rising like Atlantic breakers, beating the parapet, washing over. He ran. Half way across, a roar louder than Niagara shattered the sky, bringing down a torrent of hail. The lights went out, and the screaming began. The last, long night had fallen.