Word: Storm
Genre: Comedy

The waves lapped against the side of what remained of the Daddy’s Child, making a repetitive *plat* *plat* *plat* that made me want to thrust my head in the water and hold it there.

“They’re coming. They’ll find us.”

I looked at Rick and it was all I could do to not swim over and thrust his head in the water and hold it there. It was because of Rick and his stupid Rick-ness that I was here in the middle of Lake Cranston, surrounded by bits of Rick’s stupid-ass boat, waiting for some divine “they” to come and find us.

“My father will make sure,” he added, cementing my plan to make sure that Rick wouldn’t be breathing within the next ten minutes.

I took a deep breath and conceded that this was partly on me. I should have known that getting onto a boat called “Daddy’s Child” with Rick was not a great idea. But Rick had talked all through university about his prowess on the open water, how his father had taught him everything, and I, like some gullible teenager, had bought into his brags. All for the hope of getting Rick to support my improv troupe.

His dad was loaded, after all.

What really sucks is that the storm hadn’t really been that big. The waves couldn’t have been more than a few feet, but Rick had panicked and aimed Daddy’s Child towards what he had thought to be an island but turned out to be big outcrop of rocks. Really sharp rocks.

And now Daddy’s Child was in bits, and we were clinging to the stupid bits that were big enough to cling to, hoping for “they” to come and rescue us. And a thought occurred to me. “If I’m going to die on Lake Cranston, at least I’m dying for improv.”

And then another thought. “That is so dumb.”

I hate Rick.  

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.