Make the scene your own
Welcome to Scene Stealers, our ongoing series of writing prompts designed to flex your creative muscles.
We’re thrilled that so many of you are participating in our writing prompt series. (Read the other Scene Stealers here and add one of your own.)
In case you’re not familiar with Scene Stealers, here’s how it works:
- We set the scene
- You steal it, make it your own, and
- Share your creation in the comments section of this post
Of course, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to share your work, but we hope you’ll do the exercise anyway.
Now for the ground rules:
- You must use the exact wording we provide—in this case it must appear in the beginning of your story.
- Your story must be 350 words or less.
- Your work must be original and not previously published.
- WTD provides an encouraging and safe environment for writers to grow and learn from each other. We’d love you to comment on other people’s submissions in a friendly and supportive manner.
- We reserve the right to delete any comments or entries we deem inappropriate and those that do not meet the specifications above.
This week’s installment is designed to develop your storytelling skills.
Scene Stealer #9
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
Now steal this and make it your own.
We can’t wait to read what you come up with, so please add your submission to the comments section of this post.
By Cheryl Craigie, Contributing Editor at Write to Done. Cheryl also blogs at The Manageable Life
Image: Woman with clapper board courtesy of Bigstockphoto.com
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Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
“Ron! Lunch! Hop to!”
Aha … Sooner than he thought.
Ron inched his small frame from below the thick quilt he’d pulled from The Woman’s bed and ran to the stairs. At the top of the staircase he paused. That morning he’d taken them too loudly—too busy stomping Nefblers to death to remember the “no louder than a pin” stair rule—and The Woman had made him do them all over. Explorer princes didn’t have time to waste on practicing stairs. So this time, he took them quickly but quietly.
“How was the adventure?” The Woman asked. “Any trouble with Wombits today?”
“No,” Ron answered, crinkling his nose at the sight of The Woman’s food. She always forgot … In his kingdom, this dish was enough to drain him of powers for days.
“No Wombits?” The Woman said, surprise in her voice. “It must be a slow day in the kingdom.”
“Woman—”
“Mom,” The Woman corrected, pouring Ron a glass of milk.
“Mom?”
“Yes.”
“When does The King return?”
The Woman sighed, setting the milk jug down on the table. She brushed the hair back from her face, sending curls like waterfalls spilling back over her shoulders. Ron watched her gnaw her bottom lip.
“When, Mom?”
The Woman slowly sat at the table. “When Jesper returns, little prince. Now eat.”
Ron bit his lip, but obeyed The Woman. He remembered Jesper. The King had called him imaginary, ordered the prince to send him away. He’d often asked The Woman if Jesper could return since The King was away. But no, she had said. Once they go away they never come back.
Now, The King was with Jesper.
“I’m not hungry,” Ron whispered. “May I?”
“You may,” The Woman sighed. “Off with you, little prince.”
Ron took the stairs slowly and quietly. He returned to the quilt. He crawled into the muddy depths.
Day 32. No end in sight.
Khara House recently posted..countdown to new year’s: round 3, day 1
Danger, mystery, secrets… It seems like these characters could have some exciting adventures! ))
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
The doctors had said it would take four weeks, maybe five to see if he had been affected. Isolation was best for everyone else right now. He knew that. But it was so hard. He lost track of the days, and that was why he had started keeping a count.
Clearly they erred on the side of caution.
Or maybe he had miscounted?
He knew he hadn’t; the chopper dropped food supplies every five days.
Six visits made thirty days. No… wait… it was more than that. How could he have lost days?
He started to panic at the thought that he would be trapped here. That they had forgotten him, or had decided to just let him live out his days in the mud hut.
The panic had a physical effect; his heart rate increased, he started to sweat, his hands trembled and he found it hard to breathe. Adrenaline pumped through his body.
He staggered outside to get some fresh air.
“Go back inside the cabin,” the guards on the tower ordered via megaphone.
“I-I c-can’t. Panic,” he stuttered. As if they could hear him.
“Inside.”
Or what? He noticed the rifles trained on him. They would shoot him. His eyesight had improved. He could see the rifles. The towers were quite a distance from the compound. Too far to throw food.
His brain put it together. Mud. No one could use mud as a weapon. That was why the hut was not made of bricks or wood and nails.
His eyes darted around identifying enemy locations and weapons. Judging trajectories and distances. He considered strategies and rejected them.
And he did all of that in an instant.
The trench that separated him from the fence and the towers beyond was too wide for a man to jump, but he was no longer a man. He knew it in his bones.
A little stagger as a feint and then he jumped.
AM Gray recently posted..Swan’s paddles on
You got my curiosity ))) Would love to know what Ron turned into, and what he can do – now that is he is no longer human…
I’d like to read the rest of your story. Perhaps you could finish your story on your blog.
Anon A. Mus recently posted..But what! There’s more!
Thanks for the comments, guys. THIS is my curse! I write short stories and one shots all the time that people demand I have to extend.
Honestly, I have no idea what he turned into. I didn’t say he had been bitten, he is still alive… so it’s not a zombie thing. He is some kind of predator isn’t he?… hmmm… I’m thinking about it. :)
AM Gray recently posted..Swan’s paddles on
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? He stuck his eight fingernails deep into the lines made today and yesterday; today was the day he was sure he could escape. How much longer would he have to put up with the annoying overly nice but slightly slutty brunette that insisted on burrowing into his armpit every night when all he wanted was to escape into dream world as quickly as possible. Less time awake, less time to think. Although he did love thinking…thinking kept him sane. Thinking made him crazy. He didn’t know where he sat on the continuum anymore. His nails dug deeper into the walls, as he tried to pry the wall apart. Nothing. Except pain in his fingertips. And in his heart. He was heartbroken. How could she have left without him? He would’ve never. Even when he had the chance. She meant the world to him. Fucking bitch. Ron had the world’s biggest heart. And now this heart was stuck inside a mud hut without value to anyone. He felt useless. What was to become of his life? This wasn’t what he had in mind. He starts to think, maybe he should make more effort with amorous brunette girl. After all she seems harmless, just too eager; in his face, literally. He hates that. He moves away from his precious lines, slides down the wall opposite, about 2m away. He’s had enough today. Over it. He closes his eyes, first squeezes them tight. He’s so angry. And frustrated. He’s not used to having no control. He can feel his heart beating quickly, loudly, almost echoing in his chest. He starts talking to himself “shut up. I want to eat you. You are too painful…” shallow breaths follow. His eyelids lose their tension. A little pool of liquid is forming by his body. Why…
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? This gig was supposed to be ‘a piece of cake’ for an experienced sculptor like me, or so they said. But, it’s been over a month and the damned thing is not near finished. A bas relief on the subject of Scientology, they said. Well, I’ve given it my best shot but the inspiration is just not coming and I’m getting tired of it. Oh, the money is good — or will be if I finish — but the heat of the lights make it stuffy in this confined space. I now wish I had taken half the money up front. Sigh. I may just go back to my studio and forfeit the final payment. But, wait, maybe if I do a swirl here and another Ron Hubbard face there….
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? Having come from an elite aristocratic family the challenge of having to sleep rough with his food being delivered through a tiny hole which was then covered up firmly with a grill allowing him air to breathe was just simply beginning to get to him. The window was too small for his sturdy body so there was no quick fix to escape through this one! Also he had just awoke and could not remember if he had marked a day off the day before or in fact before he fell asleep the same day. Feeling dirty, tired and depressed he wondered if this was the day he would win his bet. He waited, listened excitedly for someone to come and let him out then all of a sudden he could just about hear singing voices outside the hut. Great he thought ‘I’ll get get good wash and ALL that cash I promised to the Soup Kitchen for new premises. Silence. Falling asleep again he awoke to the sound metal window being rattled by the T.V. Presenter who told him ‘We have been here for ages, thought you were dead when we looked in the window’. Congratulations from the people of the village were happily accepted as he was bodily helped out of the hut, propped up for the Cameras whilst a huge cheque for 1 Million Pounds was placed in his hand.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
As he heard the moans outside, he shuddered. Although he knew they were still a good distance off, he wasn’t entirely sure how much time he had. Ron didn’t even know if they would come for him at this point. He looked at his arm and wondered if it would happen to him as well. He knew the answer to the question that he dared not ask aloud but he couldn’t help and be curious. The question wasn’t so much “if” as “when”.
Why on earth had he made the trip outside yesterday? It was a completely unnecessary risk to check the garden. His first couple of trips to acquire the tomatoes that had not been attacked by insects had been fruitful but there was no way to maintain the garden while attempting to hide in this hut. What did he have to show for it? Some fresh blood stains on his shovel and a bite from one of the latest visitors.
The bite mark had begun festering this morning. The smell from the wound filled the entire hut and, although not quite overpowering yet, appeared to be headed past the point of being covered by the other surrounding smells. His nostrils flared up with the stench every time he moved the arm.
Ron knew was that any bodily fluids from them could steal your humanity and your senses. To be touched was to be assimilated. He had seen it happen to people he knew and he was not prepared to become one himself.
The moans were closer now. Ron couldn’t think clearly any longer; his thoughts became cloudier and cloudier until eventually the moans were coming from his own mouth, joining into the chorus of those outside.
Scene Stealer #9
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? He quickly redirected his thinking and burst out laughing as the characters from Gilligan’s Island came to mind. “I wonder if the Professor can fashion a radio to get news from the outside world. Maybe the Skipper and Gilligan can build a big fire that will attract a rescue team.” Ron knew he was talking out loud like a crazy person but there was no-one to hear him.
The day was just getting started. The weather was once again pleasant and warm. Ron’s routine was to venture toward the shore, never too far from what had become his home base on that high ground landing. His hope each day was to catch some sign of life. He was not a young man and old bones couldn’t manage anything more ambitious then this daily jaunt of about 500 yards. Ron remembered how reluctant Brenda was to take this trip to Aruba and the Dutch Antilles in the first place. He remembered reading in one of the travel brochures that Aruba and the other Dutch islands in the Antilles are a land area of 69.1 square miles and densely populated with a total of over 100,000 inhabitants. About three quarters of the Aruban gross national product is earned through tourism. Tourists come from Venezuela and the United States, even as far away as Minneapolis like Ron.
Brenda’s sudden death was a shock. He knew Brenda was gone but he still talked to her often. Now, the motivation to take a post-retirement trip had become the beginning of his self-proclaimed final chapter. He was going to learn how to live alone and without her. He laughed out loud again. “I’m alone all right. Brenda. Too bad you couldn’t make it.” Truth be told, he was pretty comfortable in his adobe style rental in this remote part of the island that he laughingly referred to as his mud hut. “This is what I call all inclusive!”
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? His A-3 widowmaker had taken flak before, but never like this, Never once had he thought about ejecting, and behind enemy lines, hell no! No Hanoi Hilton for Ron. Meng Xia was waiting just over the border in China. How he longed to enfold himself in Meng Xia’s golden flesh, to feel her smooth sunlike skin, so radiant that it could pass for a tiger’s eye opal, as her thighs wrapped around him, easing him inside her.
They had planned it all. According to Uniform Code of Military Conduct II.5.A, any serviceman who married a foreign national with the assent of his C. O. would receive eligibility for married quarters, and that if the serviceman’s conduct was deemed to be proper, the bride and any offspring would be recognized immediately as permanent residents of the U. S. of A. Ron signed up for this deep-interior bombing run, knowing that if anything happened, he could ditch the Big Bird and use his SpecOps skills to cross the Nam-China border. Once in Red China, he could get word to Xiang Hai and they would be one body within an hour. Warm, muddy ice paddies were good for the complexion, after all.
Ron’s mind snapped back to his current predicament. He had stayed one step ahead of the VC for two months now. His night vision and signal intercept technology had let him find a Chinese spy. Hiau Van Pham was borh to a Chinese dad and a Vietnamese mom, and spoke both languages. He also knew what deep ox shit Ron was in. The GIs were looking from the west of the ithsmus, havingcaptured the wreckage of the A-3. The Cong were looking, too, hoping to trap Ron in the forest, pin his eyes open, and stake him to a tree. The NVA just wanted him for interrogation. Meng Xia was looking for him, too. And those NVA who had R&R in Xiang Hai were looking for Meng Xia.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? He turned away from the window to check his equipment and move on. While walking away, the wind was blowing into his face, making the smell of the dead even more unbearable and covered his face with his hand to guide it past him. The blood on the walls where still fresh from the gunfight earlier and tried to avoid the bodies laying around down the hallway. Just to touch them again made him almost puke like last time, but what choice did he had. As he was searching for some loot in between them, he noticed a fine pistol on one of them. Instantly curious to see what kind of gun it was, he fell to his knees and started searching. It was his lucky day. He found a colt 1911 and two clips inside one of the body’s pockets. Overfilled with joy he were about to yell after Lisa to look at what he had found on it, though the roamers might hear him and chose to walk silently like previously. He walked past the dead bodies and got downstairs. The staircase squeaked as he travelled down. Entering the kitchen, he instantly saw her red hair. The curls, which formed her hair, made it look like fire as she moved around. She stopped for a second and looked him in the eyes. Her freckles became visible to his eyes as well as her dark green eyes and elegant face too. She started to smile. “What are you staring at?” she asked him softly. “Are done searching through them?”
He straightened his back and replied with a yes. She looked down to his hands.
“Is that some of it? What is it then?”
Ron started to walked over to her to present the gun with the clips, but heavy footsteps could be heard from down the hall.
“Shit! Roamers!” She whispered. “Quickly run, before it comes to us!”
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
The piece of fabric that was his door bellowed towards him then sharply sucked back into the small living area. He could hear someone enter the main room. Ron moaned audibly. He wasn’t up for company.
“Hey, Ron are you still in there? Ted called out.
“Where else would I be.” Ron’s morose reply drifted around and under cloth’s multi-colored designs.
“You gotta come and see the sporting event they have planned. “
“Not interested Ted!”
“Oh, come on your missing the essence of this trip.”
Ted! This isn’t Africa. I’m not missing out on seeing a lion, or getting stomped on by a rhino.” Ron angrily stepped out from behind the curtain; he brushed his hand down the front of his fake animal skin tunic. “This!” He took a step back and bumped into the wall, with a sickening squishing sound. He disengaged himself from the wall and sneered at Ted. “This… is a pretend get-away to prehistoric times. I get to live in Fred and Wilma’s cow-dung mud hut. The best part is this toilet. Did you know Ted, that if you sit here long enough the damn thing starts to melt? When you came in, I was just sitting there wondering if this goop …” Ron raised his foot up, “was part of me, this hut or the last occupant!”
“Ron you’re not giving this place a chance. Relax have some fun”
“You’re missing my point, Ted. When I decided to come on this… fun-filled-vacation, I gave it my all. This place hates me. Everything I touch, melts! I have to get out of here.”
Ted turned to listen at the doorway.
Ron slipped and fell against the mud outer wall. Ron called out panicked “Ted!”
Ted held up a hand, “Wait one minute Ron. Hey, guys! Ron’s leaving!”
When Ted turned his attention back into the room, there was an odd shaped hole in the wall and Ron was gone.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? Every morning he stepped outside hoping it would all turn into a bad dream or a practical joke, but nothing changed – he was still alone, the hut was still on a tiny island with three strange looking trees, the island was still surrounded by water as far as the eye could see, and the water was still full of creatures he has never seen before.
Ron sighed and walked over to the trees. He grabbed a big purple fruit which he discovered to be edible, and, as he did every morning now, sat down to observe the underwater birds, dragons, and other things he did not know what to call. As he peered into the water, he realized that something was different today – the ocean dwellers were bustling about, and it looked like a big shadow was moving deep in the water.
Ron’s curiosity slowly gave way to horror, as he realized that something enormous was coming his way. He hid among the trees, clutching at the branches, hoping it was just a hallucination. But soon waters bubbled, flooding nearly everything on the island, and at last the colossus rose – slick, grayish-blue sphere was smooth to a fault, no doors or windows. Still hanging on to the branches, Ron watched the risen vessel with mouth wide open.
The light shone from the sphere, and a slim figure appeared amidst the light. “You can come out now, I mean no harm,” – a clear, friendly man’s voice said. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Ron. The Emperor wishes to see you at the City of Lights.”
Ron was confused. “This is a dream.. Or maybe I’ve gone insane… The fruit must be hallucinogenic!” – he thought. “Oh, what the hell, I don’t have much chance on this island anyway.“ Unsure and still afraid, Ron slowly made his way towards the sphere…
Is there a sequel?! :) Nice imagination – I loved it.
Vic, thank you – I guess, reading fairy tales as a child left traces ))) No sequel, but it might grow into a children’s story one day… I hope!
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
Never most likely, he knew the wall of the hut would only take another hundred lines. He thought he would stop etching last week, week four, but he could not stop. He needed some routine in his life.
The Mistresses would assume all had been lost when the ship did not arrive. He wondered why the woman up above had singled him out for survival. Someone had lived here before and built the hut. At least he could live on coconuts and fish and had fresh water from the mountain behind. He wondered why other people did not live on the island.
At least scratching a line in the mud wall came easier than those he had scratched on the hard cell wall back in the United Kingdom. Then there did not seem much united about his role in the kingdom.
He wondered what life might have been like in Australia if they had reached there. He had heard tales about all the women in charge and the way they mistreated the males. Chain gangs, work on roads and farms. The best of the men taken for prostitution and for the baby farm.
He could do with a woman for some company here. He could not undo what he had done to Doris. Of course he had not meant to do what he had done in that moment of panic. Ron thought of Doris her soft flesh and wet kisses. Perhaps he should have taken the option for hanging rather than deportation.
Day 131. He had etched shorter lines on the wall and now dots instead of lines.
Day 250. He now knew why others had not landed on the island and wondered how many more marks he would have to etch on the wall before he died. Perhaps he would meet up with Doris when he died and she would forgive him.
He looked at his purple body in disgust and woke up.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, he felt weak and frustrated. He did not want to give up but this was just a living nightmare and it was real. He was constantly kept in this dank, dark place with no windows and only a few holes in the ceiling for light. The guard at the door made sure that no one entered or left. He was aching from sitting on the floor constantly and new that his odor was bad.
He was still in his business suit, what was left of it. They had kidnapped him from his taxi as he was heading to the embassy. They had thrown a dirty cotton sack over his head and threw him into the back of a truck and sped away. He did try to get away, but after several kicks to his stomach and groin plus the pipe (or whatever it was) to the head, he laid quiet until they stopped.
The only thing that he remembered was that it was a very long ride and the sun nearly baked him lying there in the trucks bed. They stopped; he was shoved upright and dragged off the truck then tossed here into this hut. So far, they have only came in to give him food (ya, they called it food) and took pictures of him and then ignored him.
He knew that the embassy would not pay for his return; he was alone in the world and had no one. Heck that is why he took the position. He had nothing in the States and was a good negotiator … they must have mistook him as someone else. But why are they keeping him alive?
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? The smell of blood and bodies filled his nostrils with a burning sensation. His friends lie here. It was enough to make him wish above all else that this torture would end. He checked his Desert Eagle .357 pistol again, removing the magazine. Only one round left. Was it for him?
Outside, in the distance, he could still make out the faint sound of gunfire and explosions. He knew it was a lost cause. No rescue was coming. He was stuck, on his own, with nothing but his own ingenuity to get him out of this hell. It was at that moment that the voice came to him again, that eiree piercing voice as though speaking through half gurgled blood.
“There is no way out this time Ronny,” the voice echoed. “Your luck has finally come to an end.”
“Is that right?” Ron snapped. “I’ve been in worse scrapes than this.”
“Your friends aren’t here to save you this time boy!” The voice grew agitated. “Look around you, the bodies, legs, arms…” There was a long pause. “This was your calvary. This was your last chance to make it back home. The rest of your boys are out there running away, tails between their legs, defeated.”
Ron took another look around the hut. That ghastly voice was right. In the past, whenever things got to heated, it ws his buddies who came to the rescue. It was almost like the final scene in a big movie. Just before the hero dies, the calvary woul come running over the hill and save the day. Unfortunately, this time the calvary came running over the hill and got shot to pieces. Only Ron survived. The enemy surrounded him, searching, hunting, waiting for the opportunity to snuff out his life.
Ron took the pistol and put it to his temple.
Ron goes home
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
He stepped back from the wall and stared at the marks he’d made, but nothing came to him. He didn’t recognise the pattern; he had no idea what he was doing.
He knew he’d been here some time and that the place he’d been before was different – very different. It was bigger and cleaner made from metal and glass, and the guardians were everywhere.
It was bewildering and confusing; they had to make sounds and gestures and draw lines to make patterns. One day he was bundled onto an airplane with a few more like him, and injected with something that made him sleep – next day he woke up on the dusty floor of the hut.
Was he home? He started thinking about Sue his friend from the shiny clean place where they both had shared the same cubicle. Ron assumed she had failed her tests and was taken to be part of another project.
Back at the wall he’s really trying to work out the shapes and patterns, where does the next line go? Now there were symbols to contend with.
At least he was well fed. The guardians always gave him little rewards of food for his progress. He stepped back one more time to take a look, the final line had been etched – it formed the letter ‘N’.
It took a few minutes but Ron recognised his own name and started to jump up and down. The guardians rushed into the hut and read the words – ‘I AM RON’!
The guardians were ecstatic and hugged each other. They attached the walking chain to Ron, but Ron’s gaze was toward the edge of the forest where Sue was standing. He slipped the chain off his wrist and ran toward her leaving the guardians gaping after him.
“*%&^!” Said the head guardian “that must be the most intelligent chimp we’ve ever trained, only thirty-one days – get after him!”
What a wonderful idea – an unexpected ending.. and a happy one! ))) Really enjoyed reading your story.
Thank you Vita, I worked the story with the ending in mind; which came to me in a flash about chimpanzees escaping from laboratories. :)
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
Certainly not today as the hatch on the top of Ron’s muddy confinement opened. In dropped another body to share the misery of Ron and 12 others in the dank cell.
“Hi, I’m …,” said the new arrival. He was immediately interrupted with a grumbling “Ron. Yeah, we know.”
Everyone in the cell was named Ron. In the spirit of bureaucratic efficiency, the prison system kept those with the same first name in the same cell.
“I used to lived with idiots”, thought Ron angrily. “Now I’m surrounded by mo’Rons.”
But what could he expect? These are the days of A.P.P.L.E. – Agency for the Protection and Promotion of Leafy Edibles.
A.P.P.L.E. originally began as a Federal department dedicated to regulating and taxing vegetables. After the latest round of elections, A.P.P.L.E. had an expanded role: They could inspect your house for signs of plant abuse.
For example, any potted plants found over or under watered earned you a few weeks of “reeducation”. Reeducation meant a muddy confinement in the ground so you would come to appreciate your photosynthesizing brethren.
If dead plants were discovered in your home, you spent the rest of your life in the ground. Then you were buried to become plant food as a fitting retribution.
You could escape arrest. These enforcers of A.P.P.L.E. were rotten to the core. Paid with enough greenery showing Benjamin Franklin’s stern face, these corrupt investigators would look the other way. But a quota – either arrest or personal funds – was going to be made.
They caught Ron with a dusty, dirty, faded plastic fern in his apartment. When he couldn’t pay the extortion, the unsmiling A.P.P.L.E. police jailed Ron for “the simulation of an unnatural act towards living vegetation”.
31 days later, Ron made another line in the muddy wall. The lines didn’t count his time stolen by idiotic political whims. Another line simply added itself to Ron’s escape plan.
Anon A. Mus recently posted..This is what we should ban.
First Scene Stealer for me! 350 words on the money!
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
The floodwaters receded days ago, which offered some relief, although they’d never made it to the top of the hill where his hut perched– a good thing too, or he might have been swept away as well. Ron stood on the cot shoved under the tiny window and stretched himself as tall as he could to peer outside. Nothing– and no one– there, just as expected.
Ron hadn’t talked to anyone in a long time. He wouldn’t consider himself lonely; he’d gotten over loneliness weeks before. Still, sometimes he found himself thinking, “Even Noah had someone to talk to.” Ron wasn’t sure if anyone else was still alive. He couldn’t imagine many had managed to survive the earthquakes, fires and rains.
He glanced into the far corner, where he’d stockpiled as much food as he could get his hands on. There were three potatoes that still seemed all right, and half a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter left. His heart sank as he realized he’d soon have to leave his shelter and go hunting– for plants, meat, he wasn’t sure what, exactly.
Ron peered out the window one more time and saw the sun starting to clear the horizon. If he packed some supplies now, he would have several hours of daylight to start looking for what he needed, and maybe even for other survivors.
He wrapped his remaining food up in a rough wool blanket, threw in a lighter, a change of clothes, and after a moment’s hesitation, his old camping knife. He could use it if he found food, and, well, if he didn’t, there was no sense in starving to death. Better to make it quick.
With a deep breath and a last look around his hut, Ron took a step outside. No looking back, he told himself, and for the first time in more than a month, began walking down the hill and toward what he hoped was a more optimistic future.
TITLE-DOWN ON HIS LUCK
RON etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home
for the last 31 days.When would the nightmare end?Life didn’t deal RON a
good hand.He had lost his job at the helicopter plant after eighteen years
of service due to cut backs in government contracts.One day he was doing
well the next he found himself living in the backwoods where virtualy no one
would ever find him.Lucky for him he had survival skills he had learned as
a member of THE GREEN BERET SPECIAL FORCES in VIET NAM
years ago.Now he was trying to survive one of the worst blizzards that
ever hit the east coast.He had lost contact with his only uncle and had
not heard from his army buddies in years.He was truly alone in a big world
where he no longer was a war hero.It seemed so long ago that he had
bought the log cabin home in VERMONT.Paying his bills was an easy task due
to so much overtime at that point in time.Now there seemed to be no hope for
his future.Things had gone sour and that was that.
He sat there in the hut he had built,the biting cold at his face and finger tips.
HE asked himself over and over what happened.IT became a nightmare
overnight it seemed.Now after 31 days living in this mud home things just
seemed as negative as ever.HE hunted for his food.HEwas out of money.
He had paid the last of his bills but the bank won out in the endand he lost
his credit cards along with his home .His wife ELLEN had run off with another
man on top of everything else .HE felt like a loser although he had been a victim
of circumstances.What to do now was his next challenge.Was he to continue to live
this way?or would he pick himself up and move forward?HE had to make up his mind
and soon or starve to death or freeze to death due to Mother Nature.HEdid have choices.
THE END [350 WORDS]
THANK YOU FOR THE OPPURTUNITY TO WRITE MY STORY.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
She was thinking to leave the room an hour before, but there was Ron. He was blinded by the amount of bourbon. In the heart she’d a little faith. She’d held his hand for what it seemed to be the eternity of love. Her last steps in the room made Ron lost control.
Ron was looking for her, all around the walls. He realized, she left a month ago.
The nightmare was:
To wake up.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
A scientific expedition brought a small crew to this remote coral isle, believed by most to be wholly uninhabited with the exception of several species of sea birds and small rodents, to study the flora and fauna.
Ron thought back to the first night the group spent camped out on the shore, so far from city lights. How musical was the wash of waves and how wondrous the gleam of stars and moon on sparkling water! A campfire’s dance provided extra light, as well as, heat to stave off any chill. One by one each person drifted off into peaceful slumber. Ron hadn’t the heart to awaken them. After all, there was nothing harmful on this spit of sand.
Guttural screams, which woke him some time later, rapidly died off to gurgles. His eyes focused on an eerie sight. Firelight revealed the convoluted shapes of his fellow team members, while beneath their bodies dark liquid replete with the copper smell of fresh blood gleamed.
“What the…?” A sharp instrument thrust into his back shortened the exclamation. He immediately raised his hands to convey he meant no harm and he stood rigid, fearful any attempt to turn might cause him the same end as had met the others.
A sharp command in an authoritative voice found his upper arms seized in the iron grip of two extremely tall and well-built females, and he was unceremoniously hauled a short distance to stand before another of the same. A silent appraisal appeared to find him satisfactory. Before he could utter a syllable, Ron found himself marched through a copse of thick vegetation and thrust into the mud hut in which he now resided.
The dawn of each day found him alone; however when night fell—having been bathed and anointed with sweet, spicy unguents—Ron’s labor as captive breeder for a lost civilization would begin anew.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. “When would the nightmare end?” he thought. Nothing was as he he’d imagined. Where was the cute, perky evening news woman with her camera entourage? Where was the NPR journalist with his dictatphone? If anyone were going to care about his project Rob thought it would have been the dam NPR people.
He spit in his hand and smoothed the mud, trying again to create a shadow effect. It just wasn’t working. “Dam mud,” he complained to himself.
He let his hands fall to his side and replayed the scene in his mind. “Give me forty days and forty nights, and I’ll create a statement to rival the Sistine Chapel!” he pronounced magnificently. “It will shame them to arms! They will weep at night when the image haunts them in their sleep! They will beg to bring their aid!” The lecture hall had cheered wildly. If only the final product had played out as well as the announcement.
The door flap opened and Ginny entered. It was noon. She always brought lunch at noon. She plopped to the floor and looked at his latest additions. “Who is the woman?” she asked innocently.
“She is Mother Earth,” Rob replied, annoyed with himself that she had to ask.
“What is that stuff coming out of her belly?”
“It is the refuse of generational poverty, the putrescence of injustice, the sludge of economic oppression.”
“Oh,” Ginny said cocking her head as if a different angle would reveal new insight.
Rob spit in his hand and again tried to smear the mud to create a shading effect. “Thank you for the lunch Ginny, but I really must focus. There are only nine days left you know.”
“Oh, alright Dr. Albright. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She brushed off her jeans before leaving.
“Only nine more days of this hell and then I can shower again,” Rob said to himself with exhaustion as he drew another line with his finger nail.
‘Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?’
The final tap of the keyboard seemed to add a resolute snap to the end of Arthur’s novel. Arthur’s second novel to be more precise, and this one had been a long time coming. They say if you ever feel lonely and unwanted, just miss a couple of car payments; the creditors will most assuredly let you know how much they think of you. In Arthur’s case it was that elusive second novel. But then following up such a runaway hit as “To Each His Own” was a task even the most prolific author would have avoided. For months the blinking cursor had ruled Arthur’s life; hell, his heartbeat had synchronized to it he believed. Arthur had taken on each and every ritual he could find on the Internet; though he had never been a religious man, he had found himself beseeching an unseen, unknown power to give him some insight, some creative blast to push him over the hurdle of that first word. And then it happened, or rather ‘She’ happened. Ellen burst in to save the day; to rescue the stranded drowning man, for Arthur was indeed drowning. With this salvation came elation; and what elation, a buoying feeling of the heart where your dreams rise on thermals, and your thoughts spiral heavenward with seemingly no limit. But, what most people don’t realize, don’t even think about, is that it’s the cold dead air encircling, and plummeting to the ground that pushes the warm air skyward. For something to live, something must die. It’s the life of nature, always moving, always changing; being born, dying. Such is the nature of creation, and for Ron’s story to be born, something must die.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would this nightmare end? He knew that each of his projects was unique within itself, but this was a bit extreme and the living habits far too surreal for him to accept the menial payment at the end of this god-forsaken cycle. They did not lie when they informed him it would be an experience like no other; however, they just failed to say that they would be conducting inhumane experiments on how the average individual would adapt to the most severe living conditions which involved no electricity, no plumbing, and no everyday conveniences which he obviously had taken for granted. Last time he checked his scouting skills were out dated and he did not finish the course with honors.
What in the world did they expect him to do with this bow and arrow! For sure it was not to live off the land and catch wild game. Besides, if he should be successful enough to obtain a small rabbit, squirrel or whatever how was he to gut it, skin it and cook the thing? While Ron pondered on the possibility of capturing his own dinner he practiced utilizing his only tool of survival by aiming it at the makeshift shelf. Boom! The arrow hit a hidden compartment which held important contents that dropped to the floor. He approached the material with precaution with the bow in his hand ready to strike. He slowly picked through the contents and pulled out the piece of paper, unfolded it and began to read: Congratulations, you have completed the second phase of the cycle by discovering these tools. Thus far everything has been provided to you now you must go out on your own and earn your own. Use your tools wisely. You should have the bow and arrow, a lighter, lantern, tin cup, a knife, bandages, ointment and a scroll listing appropriate shrubs, flowers which are good and which to stay away from. Remember, kill or be killed.
Thanks! This is DEFINITELY sparking a new flash fiction story. Plan to keep it under wraps until I publish it. :)
Sandra Sealy recently posted..great weather for MEDIA anthology (US)
This is so great rules. Telling a story with a long and too many words in it might get people want to read it and with famous person, others would definitely read it all no matter how long that story is. But 350 words story is so great.
Thanks – Ferb
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Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? His reminiscence of his growing up years in Guma, a suburb of Makurdi, Benue State, North-Central, Nigeria brought back the thoughts of a blissful marriage which is fast shattering.
This line marks about a month of his hostage taking by his wife’s brothers who came to seize him to avenge alleged tortures he had put their sister through. It was however one of the series of lies Ron’s wife had framed up to secure her divorce from him so as to marry Njuve, her childhood lover, from a neighbouring clan.
Just three months before today, Ron’s first daughter was declared missing after an aborted search orchestrated by the wife, Sasha. The police was not truly committed and that led to a fall-out between Ron and the police authorities. Hannah, the missing daughter, is the perfect resemblance of Ron’s mother who had passed on earlier in the year and buried but the traditional funeral rites were yet to be completed.
Ron’s second child, his son, developed a tumor of the brain some years ago. This has been severally operated upon and managed but it regenerates, making the Tinkler Health Foundation develop reservation of the continuous operation and management of Tener’s tumor. The Foundation allocation for the child had long been finished but they only managed to carry out the last operation using surpluses left in other account heads. This child has been in their Post-operation Care Facility. His father’s story of the past 31 days has been concealed from him for obvious reasons.
Tina, the youngest of the three children cried helplessly as 3 hefty men, who latter turned out to be her uncles, but unknown to her, bruised and forced her father into a Toyota Camry 1995 2.2 GL Model. Ron’s knowledge of his second daughter’s psychological trauma has been haunting him as much as his other travails.
With eyes full of tears Ron had asked himself: “God, Where did I get it wrong?”
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end? He thought about those that had not been located in time to evaluate with them. He thought about her and wondered if she was alive or dead. It had been a month since his life had changed since the world had changed. For years, the warning loomed and was prophesized. Most didn’t believe some half believed that it would actually happen, the Mayan prediction of the renewing of the world on December 22, 2012.
December 20, 2012, had started normal; Ron woke up after only a few hours of sleep following his online search for a new partner. He had been married three times and was currently separated from his third wife following her deportation back to Guatemala 2 years ago. Her family had reported that she had been missing since three months after her deportation and he was unable to locate her. He showered and dressed for work as a middle school teacher.
Ron pondered the logic of staying up all night seeking love online while still legally married, that is until December 20, 2012, when Ron arrived on campus and opened his school email, he had an email from the Guatemalan Embassy in Houston, Texas stating that there was a letter from Guatemala waiting there and they were contacting him at his work email because they did not have his updated information.
After presenting identification and updating his information, he torn into the envelope to learn of the faith of his wife. Ron expected to find a detailed letter telling where she had been for the past two years, a love letter, something more personal than what were written there:
Ron, I learned the Mayan Prophesy is true. Can’t tell you how I know this but if you ever loved me or trusted me, believe me now and prepare yourself.
Your wife,
Mrs. Yessica Carter.
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
Blue hour approached and heavy fog floated between the brush. Ron thought “I must go now””. The light of a lone candle revealed just how was small the space was. No modern conveniences, no running water. He could do without these luxuries if only he had a regular hot meal. His mind drifted to a thick rib eye smothered with simmered onions, a baked Russet potato with ample slather of warm salted butter. Four fingers of scotch would wash it down. The clarity of the present moment struck. The weather was turning and he could not tolerate another night here.
He grabbed the canteen and bread, stained amber from the dust. He left the cap and transistor radio. Leaving the radio was tough- it was his only connection to the world. There hadn’t been a broadcast in a week so why lug it? He missed those nocturnal broadcasts, the volume barely audible. With the absence of a timepiece, there was no way of knowing how long he tuned in. The last broadcast was broken. A hushed message “they’re in the building” clearly audible. Then a series of loud noises, confusion and that bloodcurdling scream.
Ron removed the battery then peeked out the window. He hit the floor face first and slithered to the door. Carefully he opened it enough to fit through. Outside the chilled, slimy mud made movement easy. As he reached the brush he heard the snap of a twig. He froze an instant before a powerful hand covered his mouth.
A gruff whisper said “They’re coming. They saw the candlelight when you opened the door. Don’t make a sound”. The hand disappeared. Ron looked and saw the silhouette of Lt. Needham, camouflaged seamlessly with the brush. A sigh of relief. Muffled groans rose above the fog. In the distance, pale, undead figures began to emerge. Needham held the grenade in his hand, finger on pin.
“Cut” yelled the director.
Good day, Mike,
I really liked your ending, because I did not see it coming at all! It was a very creative way to end the prompt )))
Thanks Vita! I appreciate your kind words! The story was originally much different. I wrote close to 900 words before I realized the limit was 350. So I had to change the ending! I really like these Scene Stealers- a great way to be imaginative and it forces one to be pithy.
Mike, I absolutely agree – putting something of substance in only 350 words takes effort (at least, for me). It was an eye-opener as to how wordy thoughts and writing can be… Always room for improvement )))
So, who’s story did you like?
Will we get a response from what we wrote?
Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?
31 days, and still he can’t cross the boundary of the graveyard.
Today, like every day, the desert sun was unforgiving. Today, though, he would get out.
“There’s GOT to be a way,” Ron said. “If only I could remember…”
31 days ago, Ron found himself here and tried to leave. Every day, he tried something new. Every day, he failed.
Twice, new people came. They got out the same night. Twice, Ron couldn’t follow them out.
Ron felt for the locket, opened it and tried to cry but the tears wouldn’t come. Neither would hunger or sleep or thirst. Ron kicked at a tombstone and stomped the ground over his grave.
“Give her up,” came a voice from behind him.
Ron spun around and ducked inside the hut. Nothing. Just the same tools in this old adobe shed.
“Give her up and walk out, dummy” said the voice again.
Ron ran back out of the hut and looked around. A raven cocked its head and set its brown eye on him. “Not too smart, this one,” the bird said.
“Hey!” Ron squinted put his hand up to shield his eyes. “Bird! What did you say?” Ron walked around the hut so the sun wasn’t in his eyes.
“Or you could try running again, dummy,” the bird seemed to laugh at him. “Or jumping. That was funny. Dummy.”
“If you’re so smart, then you tell me how to get out,” Ron turned to the stone wall around the cemetery. The bird was sitting on the wall. Ron glanced back up at the hut and back at the bird. “How did-”
“Get rid of her, dummy,” the bird said and hopped a few steps over. “Give me the shiny,” the bird said, flew over and pulled off the necklace and locket, and landed on the other side of the wall.
“Hey!” Ron jumped after the bird, falling over the wall, out of the cemetery.
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I was curious if you ever considered changing the layout of your blog?
Its very well written; I love what youve got to say. But maybe you
could a little more in the way of content so people could connect
with it better. Youve got an awful lot of
text for only having one or two pictures. Maybe you could space it out better?
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