We love the latest burst of creativity from Erica Drayton who is about to embark on a month of handwritten 100-word stories. Not content with inspiring her own outpourings of words, she has dropped the ‘Pentober’ pebble in the pond, encouraging all of us to join in.
Today (1 October) is Day One. I may not manage every day, but I plan to add my contributions here as a modest collection of handwritten musings.
The prompt is ‘Thunder’.
Thunder
It smelled stale, lingering odours of a thousand pairs of bog-soaked boots. He’d approached this word-of-mouth bothy through dense pine trees, branches flicking at cheeks raw with cold scraping at a three-day-old beard. Now, as insomnia haunted his tortured soul, lightning flickered, making arms of branches and the shadows of imagined pursuers from ancient trees. He counted, slowly - three, four – a low insistent rumble, threatening, malevolent. It’s getting closer. They are getting closer. A storm is a-coming. He can feel it. Bright light, loud claps, dogs howling. He tightens his grip, raising the pistol – they are here.
Day 2 and the theme is ‘Cruel’ … delicious, so many options.
My piece is called ‘Love is …’
I edited the words I typed but left the original unchanged, in the spirit of Pentober.
She said she loved him as they kicked their feet in the cool stream, murmuring her devotion under vivid chartreuse leaves dappled with the glow of Summer sun. He brought her gifts. Ice cold drinks from the store paid for with his paltry earnings from the paper round, a book of poetry stolen from his mother’s bookshelf. She took it all and stole his heart in return. He raced to the riverbank that day to find them stood in the water, her lithe brown limbs wrapped around the tanned muscled torso. She looked straight through him, smiling. Love is cruel.
Day 3 - ‘Lost’
I retrace my steps.
Reimagining moments past, looking for traces of familiarity. Pausing for several minutes adds to my confusion. So, not lost exactly, temporarily misplaced. Me or them? Look again, more carefully.
The book is paused between chapters, open on the high-backed chair. They should be there. No such luck.
The dusty distorting light in the cellar doesn’t help. Creaking up the stairs, following my reversed footprints to the kitchen counter and the uncorked Bordeaux. Not there either. Maybe the wine caused it. This puzzle.
Spotting the reflection of a tired old man, reading glasses perched on his head.
Day 4 and the word of the day is ‘Fall’.
So, a conundrum, a prompt from across the pond, divided by a common language … Fall as in Autumn?
I’m going for fall as in ‘tumble’, playing with words.
The breeze down there is a gale up here, tugging at my windproof, invisible hands pummelling at me. I can’t look at the ribbon of water lacing through the canyon. There’s a hollow terror in the pit of my stomach. The gear is strong, clips and carabiners tightened. But there are always new doubts. Voices encourage me, taking my toes to the edge. A strong gust like a hand on my back. I’m tumbling.
Aaaargh
The rope stretches beyond logic. It should have caught me by now. Plummeting, head first, hitting the water as the recoil defies gravity’s intentions. Bungeeeee!
Day 5 - ‘Hunger’
Hunger is a difficult issue to deal with in a world where so much food is produced and yet there are still those in dire need. I have no personal experience of it and an imagined piece about human hunger wasn’t something I felt able to explore.
But we also live on a planet where mankind has crept inexorably into spaces that used to be the sole preserve of the natural world and that has created problems for predators and prey alike. As man’s urban development sprawls into forests, prairies, and savannas, beasts find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings with their instinct to hunt undimmed. This is an imagining of that world.
She hid in shadows, the pain sharpening her senses. Licking at the wound, healing herself, another deep-seated ache nagged away at her. It had been days since she had cost them the meal. The stinging impact of the hoof had gashed her thigh giving the cornered zebra a rare reprieve. Her pride was hurt; the Pride cast her out. But strength was returning and hunger drew her to fresh hunting grounds. Survival depended on her own skills. She sought weak prey, easy pickings, a chance to feast. On the outskirts of the village, the children’s shrill voices offered hope.
I still don’t know what I envy more in this moment: the story or the penmanship? They are both divine!
Great tension.!! Even in so few words...