Creative Writing, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Writing

Folly

By Scott Bailey © 2016

She stared at the artefact. It reminded her of a flower. Well, reminded was the wrong word. She had never seen a flower – there were no more left. They had died out long before she had arrived.

Everything had.

But in the last few months, her colleagues had managed to decipher and read the ancient data they had found here and there. They had pieced together a rough history of this dead place. Not much but enough – enough to know what happened.

Enough to know it could happen to them.

Enough to know what a flower looked like.

Before they had died – somebody had carved a final message on this artefact.

‘Man’s final folly!”

She wondered at that. She could not fathom its reasoning.

It was beyond doubt now that this giant metal flower had been the instrument that had called out to them so long ago. Sent its message to the stars.

And they had heard. 20,000 long years ago she and her colleagues had boarded their ship and started on their way.

In all probability, the flower was still broadcasting then. The carver of that message was still breathing good air.

No more.

There was no more good air. There was nothing left to breathe it.

What puzzled her more was the fact that the remaining histories made it plain that it was foreseeable. Preventable even.

Yet she could also see that their own masters back home could easily make the same mistake. As advanced as they were the path was familiar.

So it was that she and her fellow robotic explorers had taken the decision to delay their trip home. It would take them 20,000 more years to get back with the warning.

This – folly – could send the message quicker. So here they were trying to repair it get it working again.

A desperate battle to avoid the fate of these long-dead people who called themselves human beings.

Photo by Igor Mashkov on Pexels.com
Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Journal, Poetry, Science Fiction, Work, Writing

The Lonely Tree

By Scott Bailey © 2016

The lonely tree

Stood atop the blasted hill
Stark
Barren branches snatching
Rays from a mist-shrouded sun

Every now and then
Upon an errant breeze
Flits a weary bird
Resting one more time
On its final flight
Then falls

All around the roots
Dead birds and ash
Giving meagre succour
To the lonely tree

One day
From that blood-soaked soil
This tree’s seed will rise
Green will conquer grey
Once more

But too late
For this final witness
Of our fall

 

In response to the daily prompt Temporary

#DailyPrompt, #amwriting

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Daily Prompt, Fiction, Short Stories, Writing

Devastation

By Scott Bailey 2017

By Francisco Sanchis Cortés (Music at an exhibition) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
By Francisco Sanchis Cortés (Music at an exhibition) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
The God of War awoke. Stirred from his long slumber and stretched. He gave a few swings of his hammer and yawned.
“This is it!” His voice rolled through the thunder clouds like a promise.
His minions had had their fun while he slept. Keeping the family business running so to speak.
That was over. The was The War. The Big One.
Those puny little tyrants and heroes would not know what hit them.
The God of War flexed his neck, rolled his head and shook the sleep from his long, flowing hair.
Lightning gleamed dully in his armour.
He looked to his left, to his right. Stretching out on either side were the flanks of his sisters. Mounted – their wings shining in the rain.
The God of War raised his hammer and with a mighty swoop bore it down on the earth.
Lighting smashed open the clouds and unleashed hell.
People were confused. Thrown off their kilter. They could not understand the petty battles, the conflict after conflict. No one seemed able to stop them. No one seemed to care.
The rich and powerful holed up with their gold. The poor were starved and eaten.
The God of War kept at it. Smiling with fury. This was his purpose, his being, his goal. His end.
So confused and fearful the people did not see, the chances they had slip away. The weapons they might use be consumed by war.
While the battles raged the earth burned. And burned and burned. The forests turned to ash and cities fell. The seas boiled away.
Beyond repair, this was the final battle.
After the long age of suffering the God of War surveyed the devastation with satisfaction. He had won. Nothing survived. The earth was too warm for life, nothing breathed.
He had won. And so now he burned with the earth. Raised his arms in fury and triumph in his final pyre.
With no players, there was no more war.
Peace descended. The earth would rest in it until the end.

In response to the daily prompt Devastation

#DailyPrompt

Daily Prompt, Fiction, Short Stories, Writing

Devastation

By Scott Bailey 2017

By Francisco Sanchis Cortés (Music at an exhibition) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
By Francisco Sanchis Cortés (Music at an exhibition) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
The God of War awoke. Stirred from his long slumber and stretched. He gave a few swings of his hammer and yawned.
“This is it!” His voice rolled through the thunder clouds like a promise.
His minions had had their fun while he slept. Keeping the family business running so to speak.
That was over. The was The War. The Big One.
Those puny little tyrants and heroes would not know what hit them.
The God of War flexed his neck, rolled his head and shook the sleep from his long, flowing hair.
Lightning gleamed dully in his armour.
He looked to his left, to his right. Stretching out on either side were the flanks of his sisters. Mounted – their wings shining in the rain.
The God of War raised his hammer and with a mighty swoop bore it down on the earth.
Lighting smashed open the clouds and unleashed hell.
People were confused. Thrown off their kilter. They could not understand the petty battles, the conflict after conflict. No one seemed able to stop them. No one seemed to care.
The rich and powerful holed up with their gold. The poor were starved and eaten.
The God of War kept at it. Smiling with fury. This was his purpose, his being, his goal. His end.
So confused and fearful the people did not see, the chances they had slip away. The weapons they might use be consumed by war.
While the battles raged the earth burned. And burned and burned. The forests turned to ash and cities fell. The seas boiled away.
Beyond repair, this was the final battle.
After the long age of suffering the God of War surveyed the devastation with satisfaction. He had won. Nothing survived. The earth was too warm for life, nothing breathed.
He had won. And so now he burned with the earth. Raised his arms in fury and triumph in his final pyre.
With no players, there was no more war.
Peace descended. The earth would rest in it until the end.

In response to the daily prompt Devastation

#DailyPrompt

Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Writing

Folly

By Scott Bailey © 2016

She stared at the artefact. It reminded her of a flower. Well, reminded was the wrong word. She had never seen a flower – there were no more left. They had died out long before she had arrived.

Everything had.

But in the last few months, her colleagues had managed to decipher and read the ancient data they had found here and there. They had pieced together a rough history of this dead place. Not much but enough – enough to know what happened.

Enough to know it could happen to them.

Enough to know what a flower looked like.

Before they had died – somebody had carved a final message on this artefact.

‘Man’s final folly!”

She wondered at that. She could not fathom its reasoning.

It was beyond doubt now that this giant metal flower had been the instrument that had called out to them so long ago. Sent its message to the stars.

And they had heard. 20,000 long years ago she and her colleagues had boarded their ship and started on their way.

In all probability, the flower was still broadcasting then. The carver of that message was still breathing good air.

No more.

There was no more good air. There was nothing left to breathe it.

Was puzzled her more was the fact that the remaining histories made it plain they it was foreseeable. Preventable even.

Yet she could also see that their own masters back home could easily make the same mistake. As advanced as they were the path was familiar.

So it was that she and her fellow robotic explorers had taken the decision to delay their trip home. It would take them 20,000 more years to get back with the warning.

This – folly – could send the message quicker. So here they were trying to repair it get it working again.

A desperate battle to avoid the fate of these long dead people who called themselves human beings.

 

 

In response to the daily prompt Folly

#DailyPrompt, #amwriting

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

The Meek

The Meek

By Scott Bailey © 2015

The weak shall inherit the earth
So it is written
Of course
When the strong are done with it
It will have lost its worth
A played out empty husk
A flooded desert
Then the meek can have it

 

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Poetry, Writing

The Meek

The Meek

By Scott Bailey © 2015

The weak shall inherit the earth
So it is written
Of course
When the strong are done with it
It will have lost its worth
A played out empty husk
A flooded desert
Then the meek can have it