The Raft

The rule for this contest is that you have 15 minutes to write a story or poem. The prompt was a picture of five people running the rapids in a raft.

It had been four days since the radio stopped working; two days since the last of the other rafts disappeared.

“Now we are one,” Mike thought as the boat drifted slowly through the South American jungle. He looked at the four other members of his party. They lay curled on the bottom of the boat in a state less of sleep and more of unconsciousness. He envied their escape, even if it was only temporary.

Hunger gnawed at his long empty stomach. He ignored it.

Every boat that had approached one of the shores had been sucked down a violent whirlpool that closed up over them; disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived. Nope. Unless something edible jumped into the boat, the hunger would just have to wait.

A movement at his feet told Mike that Trisha was waking up.

“Any change?” she asked.

“No.” Hopelessness had taken the civility out of most of their conversations.

The others woke up a short time later. No words were spoken as the raft continued its drift downstream. Eyes stared blankly out at the passing shore as mosquitoes feasted on the unflinching arms of the once-upon-a-time adventure tourists.

They numbly waited for fate to choose the method of their demise. They would starve in the raft but had not the courage to try for the shore.

At first, the sound was too far to be sure it was even there. Soon it grew into the roar they had all come to know and fear. The giant whirlpool spanned the entire width of the river.

Without a word, they grabbed up their oars. Fate had made its choice but they would not go down without a fight.