Sunday, 6 January 2013

Mud hut

A writing prompt from a site called Write to done. They call them scene stealers

They have some cool info and some free downloads if you sign up etc... so it is worth a look.

These are the 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. (I did 349 - ooh cutting it fine)
  • Your work must be original and not previously published.

mud hut

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.


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 2012

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