This week’s writing prompts were juicy! Very well thought out and so open to flights of imagination over new territories.
For those unfamiliar with the amazing work going on over at BeKindRewrite’s Inspiration Monday do yourselves a favour and check out the talent there. You will not regret the visit.
Here is my attempt at one of this week’s prompts – Too young to live:
Too young to live. Too old to die.
Those were the first words you said to me. I cannot remember that day but you would repeat the story of how you found me so many times I know it by heart.
It was bad times you would always start. People left the cities in their millions because there was nothing to eat there anymore and they wanted to go find land on which to grow something. But there were severe droughts in most parts of the country so people either wound up along the coastlines or rivers. They formed communities as best they could, but as soon as any grouping got larger than the mouths they could feed, fights would start. And of course, there’d be fighting between communities over places of the greatest abundance. A lot of blood was shed. It goes without saying that the most ruthless groups lived most prosperously.
I was never really a people’s person. So it made sense for me to head into the heart of the dustbowl. It was tough going for a while, but with some patience and perseverance I eventually found the rhythm of life out here. In some weird kind of way, it’s like this barren place and I were made for each other.
Then one day I came across a crude settlement out in the middle of nowhere. Two bodies, obviously the victims of marauders, were sprawled under a shade construction as they had fallen. I buried them and continued deeper into the wasteland. And that’s where I found you, crawling around on your own. Too young to live. Too old to die. We’ve been travelling together ever since.
I buried you forty-seven days ago with my own hands. I cried so much I thought rivers would flow through the desert. I slung your bag over my shoulder and continued the circuit we had walked each year.
It was not long before I became lonely. I veered from the path. Instead of finding the communities you spoke of, I discovered towns. Then cities.
There never had been any droughts. You lied to me.
And that paper.
The one with your photograph and print on it that you said told how you won that science prize? Well, I got people to read it to me. How could they all lie about your escape from prison? Who were you? And who am I?