Tuesday’s Child is Full of Grace (A First Lines Project)

Well now…

Here we go again with another title with the word ‘grace’ in it.

No, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I don’t have a Sue Grafton thing going on. I just have to learn to plan things better.

The takeaway from this challenge is that it has taught me to be more succinct. It has taught me to get to the point quicker. I have this tendency to ramble, and that’s usually indicative of a prominent Dad-gene or something where a person, usually a male, usually of a certain age, will bend an ear or two about a certain subject regardless if it has anything to do with the subject at hand, but it doesn’t seem to matter because when the prominent Dad-gene is stimulated, the antidote isn’t necessarily in the recognition of others, the anecdote is the antidote. Some guys just like the sound of their own voice. Why I remember a time when I was a boy and the summers were long andSOMEBODY STOP ME BEFORE I RAMBLE AGAIN!

Seriously, the above paragraph was rewritten like 10 times because it was too long.

Thanks, iAuthor!

While I have finally acquired the skill of using fewer words to make a more impactful statement, I’ll still flail around like a fuzzy, yelping chick until I get my feathers in place, and learn how to fly straight.

Speaking of repeating myself, looks like I’m going back to the well again. Not that I’m complaining. Ionut Caras’ photographs are a perfect playground for storytellers seeking new inspiration. I didn’t spend too long in looking at this one. I knew exactly where I wanted to go.

This one was a little clunky, but I had a lot of fun with it. Just your standard world-is-coming-to-an-end type of story and heroes and villains coming from unlikely places.  One of these days, I’d like to explore the macabre. I might have to add this one to the WIP pile.

Thank you for reading.


Tuesday’s Child is Full of Grace

“Today marks the seventh day of these strange and deadly weather patterns,” a talking head on a televised newscast droned in a broken and vandalized storefront. “Still no word from the world’s top scientists as to the reasons why the entire planet simultaneously and spontaneously evolved into a toxic wasteland.”

Outside of the shop, anarchy rules. Cars and buses have folded into each other in a smoldering embrace. Drivers and passengers broken and rotting from the aftermath.

“World leaders, fresh from their summit in the Hague, offer nothing more than thoughts and prayers for the survivors. Markets plunge, and law and order have become relics in their meaning.”

Somewhere in an alley choked with human debris, a man with rage in his eyes, a lifetime’s worth of tattoo’s on his flesh and a numbered orange jumpsuit on his back, stockpiles bloated and freshly violated corpses. He broke out this morning. It is now early evening. He hasn’t stopped. He isn’t going to stop.

“Surviving Evangelicals have gone on record to give the official word that this is indeed the end of days.”

A crow, having had his fill from the hollowed eye socket from the corpse on the top of the pile, launches himself into the sulfur choked sky and over the burning city.

“Mortality rates have reached all-time record highs, the world is….is…” the talking head stammers while shuffling his papers in front of him. “Forgive me. It appears the teleprompter has gone dark, and I’m just being informed that the copywriter has just collapsed at his desk.”

The crow navigates through rows of once meticulously trimmed hedges and trees of a once vibrant park that is now dying from rot. He spots his quarry near a rust choked fountain; a baby carriage occupied by a slumbering, six-month-old infant. His talons grip the carriage’s handle. His eyes fixed on the child.

“Ladies and gentlemen. To anyone within the sound of my voice, I would just like to say if there’s anyone left. Please, find a way to take care of each other. Find shelter underground. I will remain here for as long as I can, I don’t know how much time we have left. As we stand on the brink of extinction, I for one will not go quietly into that good night. Half of our crew have already perished…I…I…” he trails off as tears well in his eyes. He is unable to continue.

Inside the carriage, the baby stirs. He opens his eyes and smiles at the crow staring back at him.

“Is it finished?” the baby asks, his voice as old as ash.

“Yes, my lord.” quoth the crow.

“Good,” the baby yawned. “Then, let us begin.”

©2016 AA Payson

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