An Exercise


Ok, so I thought it might be a rather interesting exercise to take a random topic and write a short fictional piece of about 500-1000 words on it once a week. Basically I’ll take something, in this example Dusk, and write something that has it as a theme or is purely about said subject. However, to make it a little interesting, I’d like you guys to submit the topic. I’ll do it ever Sunday, and pick the topic from whatever things are suggested throughout the week. If no one asks for one (which could very well happen) then I’ll just think of another random phrase or subject of my own. But it would be that much more interesting if you guys picked for me. So, here goes; I’m just going to take the subject of Dusk and run with it.


Doggard step after doggard step. The dust begins to rise in a ghost of his path, permeating the air as the light spills over him, setting him awash with orange as the dying sun retreats over the horizon. The wheeze of his breath manages to penetrate through his mask, a strained noise, belying his ill health. He takes another step and almost stumbles, an errant stone sending him astray. It’s not far now.

He continues, his sight blurred by the grit caked over the lens of his protection. Gloved fingers come up, wiping away the worst of it as he tries to make out the sprawled huts in the distance. He takes another step. Coughing, he splutters a little, lips brushing against the rubber covering his mouth, spittle making it slick, making him taste the dirt. It gets everywhere, which makes him scared; if that can get in, so can anything else. He takes another step, glancing up and squinting, the sun a vivid gold as it leaves him, visiting other lands.

Other sounds begin to reach him; the scuffle of footsteps, the disjointed sound of an out of key piano, voices raised in song. He would smile, if it didn’t force his cracked lips to sting with pain. Almost there, he takes another step, bringing himself closer to the shacks. Closer to a drink. Closer to people.

His thoughts are disturbed by a cry in the dry air, like a crack of thunder, only lasting far longer. He looks around, his breath coming in loud, making him wince at the sound. The landscape whirls around him, and he stumbles again, falling to the ground, trying desperately not to cut his hands on the sharp earth. Pulling himself to his feet he doesn’t even bother to dust himself off. The singing has stopped now, leaving the evening eerily quiet. He glances around once more, and takes another step.

The sliver of sunlight left arches across the sky, vast rays touching the few clouds in the sky, tinging them gold in one final caress before all light is gone. He wraps his hands around himself once more before half-walking, half-stumbling towards the largest of the buildings. A sign swings in the light breeze outside, that deadly breeze, and he pushes the door open to see a dozen faces turn to look at him. Every one is riddled with sores and cysts, the pain evident in every strained expression. He takes another deep breath, closing his eyes as he tries to dismiss the ghastly sight.

“Fuck off.” One person says, their voice barely above a whisper. The eyes never leave him as he moves to the bar, his embarrassed shuffling making their gaze even more uncomfortable. Pointing at the bottled water, he reaches into his pocket and pulls free some tattered bills.

“No good. Fuck off.” The barman folds his arms, forcing a half smug smile as the wounds on his face weep fresh pus, the liquid dripping off his chin and onto his chest. “Your kind ain’t welcome.” No word reaches above a hushed tone, another curse ladled upon these poor folk. The stranger hangs his head, holding out both hands imploringly as he finds the remainder of his money, laying it on the table. The barman leans foward.

“No. Good.” His voice breaks as he tries to raise it. “Fuck. Off.” Each word drips malicious envy, and with a deep sigh the stranger turns, leaving his money behind him. It was no good now. He leaves the bar, heading after that fleeing sun. It was right to leave this place; everything else had. He takes another step, moving on.

About Phill Cameron

I've graduated, had a look at the world, and spat. Now I'm devoting my time to moving from 3/4 of a games journalist to 9/10ths. I figure I can get away with 9/10ths.
This entry was posted in Fiction and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to An Exercise

  1. dowanthappypants says:


  2. stevetheblack says:

    Bolivian tree frogs next week please!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s