The exercise:
The final Friday's worth of four lines of prose of 2012 would like you to write about: the miner.
Still feeling pretty tired and weak, but at least I'm starting to trust my stomach again. Hopefully another night of decent sleep will finish the job.
Mine:
Everything he touches is black. No matter how long he scrubs and tears at the flesh of his hands, a smudge of coal marks his progress through the town, through the shops, through his home.
There is no hope of escaping the mines.
For his entire world, touch by reluctant touch, is transforming into one.
2 comments:
Well, all I can do is wish you good health and soon!
Your poor protagonist – that sounds like an interesting but sad story he has to tell.
The miner
He was manic. There were twenty caverns to make his way through, filled with poisonous pansies, slime, snakes, and worst of all, manic mining robots. It seemed like every cavern required thought, careful timing, and perfect jumps. But he was sure he could it, because he was Miner Willy.
Greg - thanks :)
And today you've had me learn something new once again, as I'd not heard of Willy before.
Though the Wikipedia article is a bit lacking. Perhaps more reading is in order...
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