“Vbbmmnnnn!” The ground shook.
“Oh, no!” Lexi screamed.
“Hold on!” I said.
We were on Dog-bone Fault. Like San Andreas, the Missouri, the Chilean Fault to Argentina, Dog-bone had a fault, too (and it wasn’t about replacing divots).
I went on. “Seismic activity, we haven’t had a big quake since Father Time played Dog-bone Forest and noted the fracture ran between #17 and #9, through Mt. Pilot and all the way to the state line.”
Our carts were perched precariously on edge. The ground shook for ten seconds, then the tear in the 17th fairway disappeared. Rough edges of a deep chasm slammed together like Carol Mann was sewing a ripped seam, like the Band Aid boys helped seal a cut before we fell deep and bled to Dog-bone graveyard, a handicap which Linky said no, number of strokes could overcome.
“Phew.” Play on,” I started. Gripping Sweet Dreams, I continued, “It’s only temporary as…”
(Image of group and earth torn, tipped, on edge, chasm showing)