[ Closed ] WHAT'S-LEFT-OF-FEBRUARY WRITING CHALLENGE " First Love"

Noted. Here's my entry:

Mimi and Ayumu

Miriam Jackson sat in the dressing room, brushing her long red hair as she waited for the photographer to summon her to the main floor of the studio. A magazine lay open in front of her and she continued to read about the love life of one of her rivals in the celeb world that she’d just started to enter.

Her mind ran over today’s shoot. Nothing too difficult, but lying around in expensive underwear was not really something that could be construed as difficult in most circumstances. However, she’d been informed that her regular photographer had fallen ill and some new guy was replacing him for the shoot.

There was a knock at the door and she turned to it.

“Come in”, she called.

A scrawny East Asian man with greasy black hair, a large spot on his chin and thick-rimmed glasses entered. He smiled as he looked at Mimi.

“Hello, Miss Jackson”, he said, “My name is Ayumu. May I welcome you and say that you’re just as hot in the flesh as in real life. I hope you’ll have fun”.

She did – for many years, with that exception of the 17-hour labour for their second child.

Buzzards and Embers

Colt stood on the bluff overlooking the small town. Buzzards circled overhead. He had a pack of raccoon pelts and some snake skins to sell at the warehouse or the docks, wherever he could find a buyer, but the thought of human contact gave him pause. He was irritable and restless, too.

'Par for the course,' he thought to himself. He was always irritable and restless. He also ached, his hands felt numb, and his head hurt. Also all common, everyday experiences for him, and he’d idly wondered whether he was irritable because he was so achey or if the irritability predated the aches and were a psychosomatic cause.

But today was going to be different, dawn of a new him. He’d seen the Miranda Wave on his cortex and, with what he knew about the Alliance, had not dismissed it as a fake. He knew he was sick, possibly dying from the inside out, and, he’d reasoned, if his days were numbered, he might as well do something with them.

Suddenly, he was aware of someone stood behind him.

And yet he wasn’t tense. For once he felt quite relaxed.

The embers of his forgotten humanity were stirring.

Last edited by Ash Leighton Plom (2013-02-16 15:04:55)

Henry Eastman pulled on his boots and stepped out onto the square. As the first rays of daylight climbed over the horizon, he walked the short distance to the stables. Arabella had been lame for three days, and the vet wasn’t due till Tuesday.

She wasn’t exactly a working horse, considering he had the truck; she was more of a romantic indulgence to his childhood, and a nod to the notion of all that being mayor might once have been, a companion as he rode the outskirts of the town, scouting for bandits, a wide-brimmed leather hat on his head.

He found her in no worse a condition than the night before, but not improved. Most likely the leg was broken, and probably the vet would recommend he put her to sleep. 

He sighed.

He remembered the farm he grew up on, trailing round on horseback after his father, their faces sun kissed, while his mother and sisters worked in the house. He remembered the feel of the earth on his hands, its warmth and richness. He remembered the stables, the horses’ breath as he brushed them at the end of the day. 

He sighed again, and his eyes stung.

As many as you like.

Ethan Wren

Nine long months of arguing, screaming and tears now gave way to a quiet dawn with pinks and oranges lighting up the sky.  The rough mechanic sat down in his work overalls and long sleeved shirt, the smell of grease still on his clothes.  Not that the sleeping baby seemed to mind, probably inherited the family love of machines anyways. His hands were clean;  so he petted the tuff of bright ginger hair down and gently rocked the infant in his arms. 

Ethan held the pink blanket in his arms, looking as bright blue eyes looked up at him.  A determined bachelor, the man who ran the junk yard proudly claimed that sentimental drivel could not move him, but leave it to a bundle of six pounds to reduce him to tears.

‘Well niece, you’re mama has a good heart but a wild streak, so you’re going to be forgiving her a lot. Guess we can work on that together,” the man said with a nod of his head, shifting the small bundle as the little girl cooed.

Whatever else happened in the Verse, Ethan would know that everything he would do would be for Ellie, his niece.

Sure is. 

Any other takers for Feb?

Only a few days left, but 200 words is do-able in a few days!

I'm going to write another one... 

Deb

Tell you what, I'm going to take this one site-wide. Deb can do her one, of course, but this needs to go wider.

- GC