Tag Short Story

Crude – Trifecta Week 84

freyathewriter 18 Comments

Below is my offering for week 84′s challenge word, which is ‘crude’. As you will see from the relevant blog post, the challenge is to write between 33 and 333 words of fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose, based on the 3rd definition from the Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary.  This week the 3rd definition of ‘crude’ is:

3.marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity <a crude stereotype>

Here’s my offering below – I hope you like it! Please check here for the other entries!

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– Oversold –

“Are we absolutely certain that this is the best that they can offer? The rumours promised so much more.”

“I agree. The hype has really oversold… this…”

The two experts gaze at the artefacts in front of them. The archaeologist reminisces on the months of back-breaking work invested by him, not to mention his team. The artist attempts to bury the wild hopes and dreams he had harboured for aeons, all the while hearing his wife’s warning ringing in his ears: “Don’t get your hopes up, you’ll only be disappointed!”

“I tell you one thing, though,” he mutters to his colleague. “They knew how to market themselves. Talk about oversold!”

“Hmm.” The archaeologist straightens his shoulders, releasing pent up tension – a combination of the gathering excitement that had been building for what felt like a lifetime, and the remnants of months of travelling in cramped quarters. “Remember, their methods of communication were crude at best. No finesse, back then.”

“Much like their art, so it seems.”

The colleagues sigh in unison. The artist shakes his head. “We might as well go. There’s nothing for us here.”

“Yes. This place is of no use to us. Poor air, poor archaeology, poor art.”

“I’d better record the names of the pieces, for our files,” said the artist, making brief notes in his book. “I wonder who this woman was, ‘La Gioconda’?”

“No idea. Nor do I care. Her beauty is as sub-standard as their ‘art’.”

The colleagues pick up their tools, making their way back to their vehicle, now ready for launch. The return to Imakon Zandar II was going to be long and despondent. Planet Earth had been terribly, terribly disappointing.

Trifecta

Emergency Stop – Friday Fictioneers

freyathewriter 18 Comments

Here is this week’s entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Here are the rules: Use the photo as inspiration, write a hundred(ish) words – and share! Here goes my offering for this week – and I welcome your comments again!

Copyright Indira

Copyright Indira

– Emergency Stop –

This is where it happens, the moment that changes my life. This is where I step out – my old world stops.

That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention. Life’s carefully crafted plan disappears in a squeal of brakes and rubber.

I’m lucky. The bus driver sees me at the last second.

I’m watching as my old life turns to dust in the distance. I open the window, shove my briefcase out, closely followed by my tie, jacket and hand-tooled shoes. A one way ticket to the airport is crumpled and sweaty in my hand.

My new life start here.

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Click the blue froggy to read other writers’ offerings – and enjoy!

 

Rusty – Trifecta Week 83

freyathewriter 19 Comments

Below is my offering for week 83′s challenge word, which is ‘Rusty’. As you will see from the relevant blog post, the challenge is to write between 33 and 333 words of fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose, based on the 3rd definition from the Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary.  This week the 3rd definition of ‘rusty’ is:

3a : of the color rust

b : dulled in color or appearance by age and use <rusty old boots>

Here’s my offering below – I hope you like it! Please check here for the other entries!

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– Twenty Six –

You could tell the difference between this institution and the others in the sector because of the paint on the walls. Our other discoveries had been painted a dull green – even the staff private quarters followed this uniform pattern. Here and there, we found abandoned traces of individuality. In one employee’s room, we had found the desiccated remnants of letters from friends and relatives, in another cellophane sweet wrappers had been taped to the windows creating rainbows on the grimy walls within. I remember touching the shimmering patterns, chasing the shadows.

Here, it was different. I shivered, despite the relentless heat of the sun, magnified by the vast wall of windows at the far end of the room. The people who ran this place clearly felt no urge to hide what they were doing – there were no buildings for miles, the terrain was desolate, no roads led here. It was as if we were standing in a figment of a twisted imagination, soon to disappear on the opening of its owner’s sleeping eyes.

I touched the rusty red walls. Even the floor had been given the same treatment. I sensed rather than noticed the neat holes in the floor, the walls, the ceiling. All equipment had been removed slowly, methodically, without hurry. Withdrawal from this place had not been urgent. They had not feared discovery.

I opened my notebook, clicked my pen into action, feeling the vibration as the spring released from its housing inside. I paused, glancing around the room, forcing my emotions to a small, dark place. It was time to record, not react.

‘Statements of the surviving inmates noted a wall of windows, intense heat, walls painted the colour of old blood. I believe we have located Establishment 26.’

I scraped a flake of wall paint into an envelope, sealed it. I hoped I was wrong.

Trifecta