Friday: Writing Group Prompt Story 1

 

war and city

Friday: Writing for Writers Group

This year I have started going, with a friend, to the South Auckland Writers Group held at the Papakura Library on the second Friday of every month. They are different types of writers than the Botany Library Writing Group (2nd and 4th Tuesday of every month) with a wider range of writers and gender mix. Each month you go home with a topic or style to write in, you read it out in the group and accept the critiques given; most of which are very helpful. Last month the topic was ‘City’. This is what I wrote for it.

The City 

We left for my uncle’s farm in the mountains when the war was declared. My parents were too old to be called up for armed service. I was a late baby. The rest of my family is scattered across the nation. We received calls from them saying they are attempting to get to the farm, our place of last refuge, but movement is difficult at the moment. Fuel is rationed. You have to get travel permission to go anywhere. Pity we didn’t start to move earlier.

Nothing has happened in the two weeks since the war started. Mum and Dad decided to do another run to the shops at the edge of the city for needed medical supplies we had not fully stocked up on. They left me here at the top of the ridge to wait so I would not get scooped up for the fight. No planes fly, no trains roll along the tracks, buses run on a shortened schedule but military vehicles abound. Only a few cars are dotted amongst them.

I peer over the rim of the ridge to see if their car is heading up the hill road. Could that be them I see coming out of the tree-line? A noise from overhead distracts me. That plane should not be flying. What is coming out of it? Multiple shiny metal objects fall rapidly towards the ground. I am scared. I drop my head down. I don’t want to watch. The light blasts through my eyelids; the brilliant whiteness overloading my senses. Frozen in fear, muscles locked, I can’t move.

The long horn blast has my head lift up and look towards the road. My parents are alive. Scrambling up, wiping my eyes, I run towards them.

“The city?”

“Gone.”

“Home?”

“Fast as we can go.”

                                                                          *****

I don’t often write post-apocalyptic or dystopian fiction but with only 300 words (not including title) I thought this could be a way to accomplish it and hopefully be effective. It was great to listen to the other stories. Some read as travelogues and others had very interesting slants in their stories.

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