Welcome to Hot Potato!
6 writers over 12 weeks, writing 1 short story
Today’s fifth fortnightly instalment, features writer Josh Kremer who is picking up the story where Sam left off. You can find the first section of our short story here, the second section here the third here and the fourth here
The wasteland of coast was not an easy path to follow, but through the midden of fallen sky and obliterated earth Winston carried on. Every step was somehow more treacherous than the last as fragments of stone, moon, and people’s lives crunched under his heavily lined boots.
The moon’s breaking seemed an entire lifetime ago. Its pieces still plummeted to earth on occasion, never letting anyone forget the past and grounding them in some strange future. Winston’s steps were slow and deliberate as he navigated the debris of Maine, each step bringing him closer.
For how long had he considered the day the moon was ravaged the changing point in his life? For how long had he been wrong?
All the world had watched, paralyzed, as the moon shattered and ruptured humanity’s trajectory for a bright future—the worst of cataclysms—yet Winston was unchanged by it. He had a strong spirit.
He had changed when he had lost her—and every day since he had blamed the moon, and had felt his heart breaking, healing, and breaking over again. He had become a drifter, floating through whatever came his way, coasting. Drinking.
Maine’s air had a crisp bite as he consulted his pocket map, and carefully measured the last leg towards a facility the world seemed oblivious to. How she had come here, and why, didn’t matter. He had to find her.
He had been lost in his head for so long, he had forgotten she was still alive and not a fragment of the past. He devoted everything to his memory and her face. Her face, piercing, drove him on. It held electrifying beauty.
The scientists had failed. They were meant to be the last, best hope for humanity—and Winston didn’t care. His only hope was Sara, his only vision was of her face. He didn’t register his steps in terms of mileage, but measured them in terms of closing the distance between him and her.
He could at last see an unscorched building, the last structure this part of the world seemed to have, and slipped inside. The door creaked, but no one seemed to hear. A dull hum filled the corridors as he quietly began his search for her. His boots clumped loudly and left scuffs across the floor tiles, and so he removed them. He peered in doors only to find empty rooms.
Carefully he continued, turning a corner and—
“Winston, is that you? Where the devil are your shoes?”
To Maine he had gone, for a woman he only remembered as a girl. He had made a promise to her…had she forgotten that she had made one to him as well?
You can find more out about Josh here:
Josh’s text has been passed to the sixth potato Jessica Cooke. Jess is now writing the section which takes us to the end of our story. Each potato is free to take the narrative wherever they like.
The final instalment of the short story will be on Tuesday 20th May where our collaborative piece will be brought to its conclusion. Do come back and see how Jess ties all the story threads up! The writers have collectively and progressively taken up the structure of beginning, middle and end.
Tomorrow ArtiPeeps will be filled with some Transformation poetry from Book 15.
As ever, thank you for your interest.
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29 Twitter poets and artists, I contemporary version of Ovid’s Metamorphoses
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