What this is all about.
Here is the fourth part to a short story being written for The 13th Floor Paradigm, Mythology Workshop #1, hosted by Oloriel. It’s a little on the overtime side due to the busy world outside
Everything here has been a little slow the last few weeks, a few hardware issues, and much day work has been curbing the writing toll, so feel free to have a read of the below (it’s only a thousand words), or follow the link above to find out more about the workshop, and what others are writing for their unique prompt from, Oloriel
The unique prompt gifted to me for the tale:
Luna – a key, a canvas, vanilla milkshake, a ghost of a dead gambler, a scimitar.
Gathering his senses, Reid in a rush stashes the map a long side sleeve in the pack, his ears prick to the sound of gunfire as he rolls up the swag, to sling with the pack on to his back, to the blast of an explosion near by, as out of the gathering dust two figures on horseback flash past. Reid turns to evade as a third knocks him to the ground, when in an instant a rocket-propelled grenade shatters his once standing dirt bike, with bits flying every direction. Half-dazed, Reid hears one of the riders shout something as all three let off bursts of gunfire into the sand storm, then discard their weapons. One of the riders hits Reid again, and hauls him across the withers of the horse as all three riders dart back into the chaos of the storm, and with him unconscious, they vanish through a vortex deep inside the sand storm
Many hours, maybe days pass, Reid wakes by a rocky outcrop beside a lone well, his pack secrete cargo still on his back, with a scattering of bush trees as the only company to another fading day. With thirst consuming him, Reid rushes to the well to draw water, slipping his pack from his shoulders as he makes the round rock encircled rim, the pack topples down into the depths of the well.
No, no! Not not now… Reid without a second to think, topples in after his precious cargo of the last ten years…Plummeting face first, until some forty feet down the well he slams into his pack floating on the surface of the well’s cold water. Light is fading above, soon it’ll be dark. Standing on his pack looking up through the dim subterranean light, the well has been lined with many rocks, but foot, and handholds look to be few.
Many times, Reid attempts to traverse from the depths of the well, but after only a few feet, coupled with cuts and abrasions, falls back into the cold waters of the well. A little time passes, when a shadowy figure appears across the opening of the dark chasm.
“Boy down the well, I will help you, but first when this rope reaches you, you must tie your pack on to it, for I am not strong enough to haul up both you and the pack at the same time.
Reid thinks for a moment, “How does the person up there know I’m down here, or even that I’ve a pack, it’s so dark, and the pack is beneath me. The ghost of the gambler warned I need to be careful, and those people from the gathering did too. It’s been a strange two weeks since I left home in the young forest of the Antarctic Peninsular. Can I trust anyone as I make my way East, those riders, and the sand storm, like what was that, finding myself here, and now down this well.”
Something distracts the voice above as the rope is tied off, they move away from the opening quick. Reid decides now ,or never, slings the pack on his back once more, and begins to haul himself up the stonewall of the well. Soon near the surface after battling with gravity, he see a reviving cloud of dust approaching the well, when like a haunting, comes face to face with a pair of eyes in the dim light.
“I told you the pack first, Boy!” when the owner of the voice brings down a scimitar…
One final part to follow, which has also been completed. The writing is a little rough, and on the slim side, but I hope the story has been okay to date.