Outside the Railroad

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

Realistically it wasn't going to happen. The lighter dark of the road seemed to go on forever, winding through the greater outer dark of the forest around us. More than anything we were hungry, so hungry it made us weak. Hungry, filthy, and unprotected--that was us. And still we walked, trying to outrun the Master. His awful face, like the pitiless side of a canyon--and those eyes that weren't eyes!--came unwelcome to my mind. It was enough to eat at my speed.

A small hand in the low part of my back prodded me forward. “No time for that, Squiff.”

I reached back for Riddy's hand and gave it a squeeze as a thank you. Stray thoughts were dangerous.

Part of the forest fell away, revealing a tamed orchard thick with crescent fruit. A rough wooden fence surrounded it and a muddy path branched off the road, leading down to a swinging gate.

"Surely we can stop for a moment." Riddy whispered.

My mouth watered and I nodded.

It wasn't until the gate reached for us that I realized it wasn't a gate but a Guardian.


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Comments (1 so far!)

Average reader rating 4.00/5



This immediately gives me the image of a whimsical tale following two children.

I am trying to picture these crescent fruit.I visualize them as small and fuzzy like peaches but shaped like a crescent moon.

  • #4151 Posted 2 years ago
  • 0
  • 4 out of 5

Story prompt:

A commenter on a writing blog woke up in the middle of the night and opened a doc to record their thoughts. In the morning they looked back at their remembered genius. It contained four words: It wasn't a gate. They can't remember what it means.

Tell us.

"It wasn't a gate." by Robert Quick

  • Published 3 years ago and featured 2 years ago.
  • Story viewed 11 times and rated 1 times.

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