Tom fiddled with the small dial labelled ‘red’, tweaking it millimetre by millimetre until the sky’s hue was a more pleasing shade of deep pink. Everyone thought Atmospheric Controller was a purely technical job. ‘Boring’, most deemed it. Kids didn’t even glance twice at his stall on Careers Day.
As described in my last post, I’m setting myself (and inviting others to join) a writing challenge designed to stretch unused writing muscles and limber up the creativity. Each month a new topic will be set, and each Friday we’ll write something based around that subject.
To try and give myself some structure and get back into the swing of writing, I’m going to get myself a pair of training wheels. And a safety helmet. Maybe one of those big bubbles to travel around in. And to do this, I’m going to give myself a type of structure to adhere to over the next twelve months. I dub this dubious challenge:
12 Months of Writing
Cloaked in darkness, I stared out through the window of the crumbling tower. The years had not been kind to this place; nor to me. The weather of time had eaten away at the stone and mortar of my soul, and the tower slowly crumbled in unison.
There was something a little different about the newest coffee shop in town. Something odd that Mia couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Excuse me, Madam President, but it’s time.”
At Naomi’s whispered prompt, the world’s first female president tucked the well-creased piece of paper bearing her own handwriting into her breast pocket and squared her shoulders. Out there, behind the purple curtain, Earth was waiting. A crowd so large that SolSec had needed to pay for a thousand guards to work overtime.
The road snakes out before me, a sinuous ribbon of grey slicing the fields of golden flowers neatly in two. An azure sky rules over them, replete with fluffy white clouds. In my chest, my heart skips jubilantly. Alfor told me I was a fool to take the road less-travelled, but my instincts have proven him wrong—again!
Elise dragged her chair to the window and turned her gaze to the sky. By the sickly glow of the dying streetlight, she looked younger than her eight years, and when she closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in prayer, Michael’s heart broke for his daughter.
The sign appeared comically placed. “Come In, We’re Open”—positioned right at the end of the pier, where the rotting white boards ended and the seemingly endless ocean began. To the casual observer, it was nothing more than a poor joke; to the right eyes, the sign hung in front of a building rendered invisible by a powerful soul-spell. A safe-house for me and mine.
When a man loves something with all his heart, he lives it, and it consumes him.