Out of the Hole

This was written as a writing exorcize for the February 8, 2012 meeting of the Vernon Area Writers' Support Group. It has been transcribed here with only spelling mistakes being fixed.

The description for the exorcize read: "It's spring. Your character is walking out of doors and sees the burgeoning trees and flowers, hears the birdsong. But the character's reaction to all this newness and freshness is not what you would expect..."

It had seemed like such a long time being stuck in that pit, the darkness, the closeness, the press of the other miners, of the rough rock walls. To emerge into this picturesque spring day was exactly what they had all talked about as hours became days, as the canteens ran dry and their throats became coated in dust and grit. Hadn't David talked about walking out into the sun and praising any deity that would listen? And Tony wouldn't shut up about the first thing he was going to eat when they were finally dug free.

Clarence had gone along with all of it, had his dream of dunking his head into a barrel full of icy water. And then there was that jar of shine he'd been saving for a special occasion.

But as they emerged into the light and openness it was all wrong. The birds were too loud. The media people with their cameras and shouted questions. It was too much. Clarence drifted back toward the hole.

Writing Prompt

Here in the office there are other writerly types (which is not unusual since I work for a magazine) and I like to encourage them to write, especially when stuff comes up that we can compete over or encourage each other to complete. Recently, I've been sending little writing prompts, kind of like Steve Buchheit's Story Bones, to one of the other people who says she likes to write and wants to write, but can't think of a good place to start. So here's the latest, you can pick up from there in the comments, or on your blog, or wherever, or don't do anything with it at all. Whatever.

"I've got to go now, and I mean now," Johnny said, clutching at himself through his jeans to hold out for just a little longer.

“You can’t wait just a few more minutes until we get home,” asked his mother.

“No! You remember that video of Old Faithful we watched on PBS the other day, if you don’t stop now, it’s going to be like that.”

“Ok, ok, I’ll pull over somewhere.”

She glided over to the shoulder so slowly that Johnny thought he was going to drown. Finally, the car stopped. Johnny was out the door and had his zipper down in record time. A couple of cars passed by on the highway. A group of teenagers in a third honked and yelled as they passed. Johnny didn’t care, he just stared off into the woods edging the road as he let everything drain.

When he was through, and he had zipped up, he heard a tiny voice from somewhere in the grass at his feet call out. “What’s the big idea? What gives you the right to come out here and flood my home?”