The Ambivalent Spoon

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         This is surely what it feels like to melt, thought Milo. Rivulets of perspiration snaked down his body from every pore. The only part of him that felt dry was the inside of his mouth, where his tongue stuck like sandpaper to his palate. Briefly he wondered how long it would take for all the water his body contained to dribble out if him as sweat; he wondered if he’d even make it to the end of the dark passage that he was stumbling along, or if he was doomed to end his days a shrunken, dried-up husk in this noxious tomb. Milo quickly took the cloth that covered his nose and mouth, to soak it once more in his bodily fluids. The sap he had used to hold in the moisture and absorb the poisonous gasses had long since evaporated; his sweat provided one advantage in allowing him to wet it again as often as he needed.

         Is it really worth it? He checked the thought as soon as it entered his mind, there was no way back now, and thoughts like that did not keep you moving forward. He breathed in as deeply as he dared through his improvised gas mask, and then silenced his thoughts so that his mindscape matched the impenetrable darkness of the tunnel. He plunged onward, now an unthinking entity of pure determination and will to survive.

                                                           

         It’s around 30º Celsius today, where I live in China. Perhaps that doesn’t seem particularly hot to some, but for a girl UK born and bred - it’s roasting! I sat down to write something with no plan or idea of what I might write, just that strange feeling I sometimes get that a river of inspiration is running through me and really ought to be given an outlet. In truth, I never write to plan. At most I have a vague outline of a plot in mind. Usually I have a scene: a beginning, middle, or ending, but no more. With this I sit down and let my fingers do their thing. It often amazes me how a story just seems to fall out of my head.

         Today, as I sat down, the thought that entered my head was how hot and airless my room seemed. From that, sprang Milo. My fingers hit the keyboard and without pause bashed out the scene above. By the end of it my head was swirling with options of how to continue the story. The river flows through my head: a raging torrent carrying the flotsam and jetsam of possibilities briefly glimpsed, then swept away to make room for the next. I think though, dear reader, that today I’m going to leave it up to you. The ending will be perfect for each and every one of you, for you get to choose it yourself.
I’ll leave you with some questions to get you going: What circumstances have lead tot Milo being in his current situation? Was he a prisoner, escaping through the bowels of a volcanic prison? Is he an adventurer stumbling through the darkness to a dragon’s lair? What does he hope to attain; does he pursue freedom, riches, or the rescue of one held dear? Will he succeed in his mission, or does this story have a tragic end?

         I don’t know the answers, there is no original blue print existing in my mind. It truly is your story now. If anyone feels inspired to decide Milo’s history or fate, then please send me the answers… It would be fun to finish the story, writing to the constraints of someone else’s plot! If you tell me how you want the story to end, or just something you’d like to see in it, I promise to write a personalised version just for you! I’ll write and rewrite as many times as someone sends a prompt.


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