Create a short story with dialogue based on exchanges you overhear between two people. – Writing 101 Prompt
Goodbye Taunton. Thank you for your hospitality. Away from the station, as the train picks up speed, I’m treated to a glorious view: Somerset’s fertile landscape stretches away on either side to the horizon.
I’m looking back the way we’ve come so each new reveal is a delight. Lush green little hillocks rise and fall on either side. Grazing fields lay out a patchwork; stitched together by barren bushy hedgerows, snaking their way across the land. Not a straight edge in sight.
I’m aching and shivering – a cold is coming on – but as we leave behind the setting sun, its warming rays give an orange tinge to the grasses where cattle make their bed, lightening my mood.
Oh man, look at that! I’ve never seen that before!
Yeah, but it’s so MOODY
Yeah, sassy weather
Sassy rain. You so sassy!
Look at the difference on that side..
Silent, steady, and sullen, a storm front rolls in from the east. A shower of rain rides in on the faceless slate cloud. The golden hues to the west tussle with the darkness while the train skirts the rim of the storm, like a medic on a battlefield, tending the wounded.
Oh why have they got the air con on full blast?
To push the wind the other way? Full speed
It’s raining but I’m so dry.. How does that even work?
Darkness prevails and the storm washes over the carriage. Its glass soldiers scurry across the windows. The patchwork fields become a sea of shadow, dancing from sight in the fog.
One time at work, in the kitchen, something was rotting in the ceiling and maggots were falling down. They had to cordon it all off..
Are you going to comment on the sassiness of the weather?
Yeah, so gonna comment..
I doze a little then. Exhausted from the day’s exertions. When I wake the light has rallied – we knew it would – and wisps of white cloud, like chariots on wings, stubbornly drive the storm from view.
It’s getting decreasingly sassy now
Yep, sunny now
The battle has scarred the landscape. Where once there was greenery, now only stone. In remembrance of the battle with nature, row upon row of brick houses line either side of the track like gravestones. T.V. aerials glint in the sunlight like rapiers.
I’ve missed my chance to capture the storm on film. The dying sun still gifts me with its heat. All I feel is the chill in my bones.