Ram Island by Lynne Gobioff
First Page
Desperate for a weekend escape, Kelly scouted another aisle in the packed Friday afternoon parking lot, acknowledging to herself if there was one day she shouldn’t have run late, it was today. She glanced across the road, past the ferry terminals, out to Maine’s harsh gulf waters wondering how far and secluded Ram Island really was. White backup lights clicked on a Saab halfway down the row. Kelly moved up, flipped her turn signal on, and opened the window letting the cool, salty air in. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel as the Saab inched backwards, praying she remembered to double lock the raccoon’s cage before she left the clinic. A muffled ting came from her pocketbook. Fishing for her phone, Kelly let go a hard sigh at the bank text alerting of low funds in her account. She pulled out the invitation to the mystery’s writer’s weekend that arrived two weeks ago on her twenty-third birthday. Printed on antique parchment paper, and written in gothic calligraphy, it touted an unforgettable weekend and the contest’s winning prize of $25,000. A blur passed her window. She looked up to find the Saab gone and a red jeep snagging her spot. “No, no no….” Kelly laid on the horn, rolled down her window and yelled, “Hey, that’s mine.”
A fellow in his twenties stepped out. His chestnut-brown hair, long enough to hit the back of his collar, fluttered in the wind.
Kelly honked again. “I was waiting.”
He reached in the backseat, threw a grey backpack over his slim frame and said, “Pretty sure I was here first.”
“No,” Kelly raised her voice. “You weren’t.”
His car lock chirped and as he took off, he called back, “Sorry, I have a ferry to catch.”
First Page
Desperate for a weekend escape, Kelly scouted another aisle in the packed Friday afternoon parking lot, acknowledging to herself if there was one day she shouldn’t have run late, it was today. She glanced across the road, past the ferry terminals, out to Maine’s harsh gulf waters wondering how far and secluded Ram Island really was. White backup lights clicked on a Saab halfway down the row. Kelly moved up, flipped her turn signal on, and opened the window letting the cool, salty air in. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel as the Saab inched backwards, praying she remembered to double lock the raccoon’s cage before she left the clinic. A muffled ting came from her pocketbook. Fishing for her phone, Kelly let go a hard sigh at the bank text alerting of low funds in her account. She pulled out the invitation to the mystery’s writer’s weekend that arrived two weeks ago on her twenty-third birthday. Printed on antique parchment paper, and written in gothic calligraphy, it touted an unforgettable weekend and the contest’s winning prize of $25,000. A blur passed her window. She looked up to find the Saab gone and a red jeep snagging her spot. “No, no no….” Kelly laid on the horn, rolled down her window and yelled, “Hey, that’s mine.”
A fellow in his twenties stepped out. His chestnut-brown hair, long enough to hit the back of his collar, fluttered in the wind.
Kelly honked again. “I was waiting.”
He reached in the backseat, threw a grey backpack over his slim frame and said, “Pretty sure I was here first.”
“No,” Kelly raised her voice. “You weren’t.”
His car lock chirped and as he took off, he called back, “Sorry, I have a ferry to catch.”