Writing Prompt: Campfire Story (excerpt)

[My Work]

My fiction short work Campfire Story sprang from the following one sentence writing prompt, "Weaponless, I faced down the lumbering carnivore that had stumbled into the light of my campfire."

Weaponless, I faced down the lumbering carnivore that had stumbled into the light of my campfire. “Hey, wan’sum company?” slurred the fifty-something woman. Scratching herself below a pendulous breast as she took a pull from a bottle of gin, the woman staggered toward me. Coming to a stop, gently swaying, the woman smoothed her red dress that fit twenty pounds ago before descending with exaggerated care to sit beside me on my blanket, plopping down uncontrolled the last few inches. Sighing, I scoot to the end of the blanket.

What was supposed to be a day aircar tour of Rocky Mountain National Park had turned into a camping trip. I tally up my regrets for the day:

I should have had the boss repair or replace that dodgy radio/transponder unit before heading out this morning.

I should have ignored Mrs Fairchild’s demands to “fly lower!” regardless of how much the shrew had paid for the private tour. When the aircar’s impeller struck that dead Aspen tree, it came to rest with about as much grace as Mrs Fairchild had exercised moments ago. While the rangers or the tour company would find us in the morning, pinpointing our location via satellite, we were stuck here tonight.

I should have made it clear that I was going straight to sleep. Didn’t I make that nag of a woman comfortable in the aircar? Designed for tours of up to eight people plus pilot, she had room to stretch out and sleep inside. The vehicle’s powerplant still functions, so Mrs Fairchild had light, heat and conditioned air. As I had no intention of being in an enclosed space with her any longer than necessary, I was bedding down by the campfire.

“Aren’t you lonely out here all alone?” said the woman, as she scooted closer to me.

Finally, I should have locked up the fully-stocked liquor cabinet.

Remembering that she’s a customer, avoiding the temptation tell her leave me the hell alone and go back to the aircar, I stand up, then break off some dry, dead branches from the trunk of a tree to feed the fire, before sitting on a rock. Rolling down the sleeves of my blue denim shirt against the cool of the night, I ask, “Is your bed in the aircar comfortable, Mrs Fairchild?”

“I’m not sleepy,” whined Mrs Fairchild, “Let’s talk!