Tales Of The Gurrier

Crane was sweating. It was almost 8 o’clock. To the west, hung an exhausted sun, a glimmering crescent, rapidly disappearing beyond the horizon. Above him, the sky glowed a deep iridescent green, and a line from an old childhood verse flitted, unbidden, from his memory, to haunt him.

‘Green sky at night, Martian delight’

He wasn’t going to make it.

Cresting the brow of the hill he passed the rusting hulk of the old water tower. Crane felt a moment of panic as the subtle pressure in his sinuses increased and the barometer on his wrist pinged another five millibars. He glanced up fearfully, but the sky above remained empty. No activity, he was almost there, almost home, he might just make it.

In the distance, sheltered in the lee of the valley, the familiar outline of the compound emerged.

A forest of metal sprang from its rooftops, radio antenna, clustering together in tight bunches like metal weeds. Clambering atop one another, they fought for space amongst the makeshift patchwork of buildings he called home. The antennae thrust upward, rising above their compost of tar and shingle on long, thin, metal stalks, salvaged and scavenged from a hundred scrapped cars and wrecked machinery. Seventy-two, he knew how many, he built most of them. Days and weeks spent toiling and sweating in the compound’s workshop, a blazing shower of sparks from the arc welder scorching his skin and clothes. Their afterimage burned into his retinas despite the heavy glass goggles he wore, until even as he collapsed, exhausted, into his cot each night the coruscating, white hot points, glowed behind his eyes like fireflies as he slept.

He recalled the day they were finally finished. The manmade metallic forest piled in uneven rows upon the dull concrete floor. The men gathered in the bright noonday sun to begin their work. Jaws set, eyes grim, but hopeful. The children racing after them, hollering and whooping with excitement, falling over each other to dance along the edge of the sticky, tar paper rooftops. Oblivious to the chiding calls of mothers and sisters, who huddled in worried groups below and watched the proceedings with dark reproachful eyes. But, as one by one the grey metal struts and stanchions climbed into the bright blue sky, each one topped with splayed antenna rods and metal teeth that listened, endlessly, to the analogue voice of the world, a small, guttering, flame of hope was born.

——————————————-

This one is a fragment, a beginning, and I’m quite pleased with it. I wanted to see how polished an opening I could write without it collapsing under it’s own weight. Into the ‘more to come,’ pile it will go.
This weeks Flickr Fiction was brought to you using this picture from Flickr user Mingz. Other participants this week are Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Elimare, Neil and Valsha.

This entry was posted on Monday, January 8th, 2007 at 12:28 am and is filed under Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.