Friday Fictioneer time again. A 100-word story based on the photo–doesn’t sound addicting, but it is. Feed your addiction at http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
“Maybe it doesn’t like bagpipe music.” Her wet feet shuffled in the boat’s bottom.
“We’re in Scotland aren’t we?” The instrument emitted a half-hearted bleat as he settled it on his hip.
She eased her fingers into her ears. For an hour, squawks and squeaks ricocheted from the loch’s surface to the grim hills and back.
“I give up,” he said finally, picking up the oars.
Behind them, sinuous coils of scaly flesh broke the murky surface of the loch. A fathomless black eye, ancient as the stones, winked in the cold mist at the tiny boat moving toward shore.
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