Hey! It looks like you're new here. You might want to check out the introduction.

Time Heals Most Wounds · Original Minific ·
Organised by RogerDodger
Word limit 400–750
Show rules for this event
Driving the Last Spike
The railing slid and locked with a clang. Someone pushed the green button and the platform began its long ascent. By a secret, tacit agreement we all kept silent, our eyes strained to catch a last glimpse of the shaft. There was nothing to see, of course. The rough walls were black and dull, the coal absorbed all the light of our lamps. Yet, every so often, a small impurity in the seam flashed like a jewel lost in a sea of dross.

The voyage seemed to last hours, though we knew it was only a matter of minutes. Usually, we all were anxious to reach the surface as fast as possible, but today it was different. No one felt in a hurry. No one had the guts to speak. Each took comfort in the silence of the others. And as we left the coal kingdom and went up through the more mundane, lighter limestone layers, we all turned our gaze down.

At last, we emerged into the sunny world above, and the platform lurched to a stop. The director himself had come to greet us. We exited the hoist one by one, and he shook our grimy hands solemnly, nodding at each of us, a dour smile on his face.

Not a word was pronounced.

It had rained the night before, and we plodded through the mud and the puddles to our old barracks. We switched our lamps off, removed our helmets, took off our threadbare suits, so caked in crud that it was hardly possible to tell their original colour, and stowed them carefully into the lockers. We then proceeded to the showers, welcoming for the last time the stroke of hot water and soap suds on our gnarled skins. Once we were purified, we walked back to the lockers room to don our civilian outfits.

Wordlessly.

Our next stop was the reception hall, where a rostrum had been installed, and, lining the walls, a couple of makeshift trestle tables jury-rigged and covered in paper towel. Glasses and bottles were scattered over them. To the right of the rostrum, a shoddy jazz band thrummed a humdrum riff smuggled from the United States.

It had been agreed that the oldest of us would deliver a short speech in the name of all miners, followed by the director. But as the senior clambered onto the rostrum, all he could sputter was a lonely “Dear” before he flopped down onto the chair, face buried in his hands, sobbing. Two comrades ran to him, helped him stand up and out of the room.

All that was heard was the shuffling and the snuffling.

The director ascended in turn, cleared his throat, took the floor and spoke words nobody listened to. Maybe about the past, maybe about the slump, there was no way to tell, as his voice banged against a wall of numbness. His final sentence was followed by meagre applause, and we all drifted away from the room, indifferent to the bottles that were left forlorn.

We boarded the bus that was used to bringing us home, grunting a simple ‘hi’ to the driver. When we crossed the main entrance, a few of us waved goodbye to the guards that watched over the gate day and night. They weren’t exactly of our kin, they had never ventured into the innards of the Earth, but they would soon end up on the dole, too.

The bus reached town hall’s square, pulled over into the parking lot and we got out, one by one, and walked away, not even bothering to say goodbye to one another. No question to gather around a beer at the pub, either. There would be ample time for that later. We had an eternity laid out ahead of us, an eternity to drown in tears, memories and booze.

I shambled down the grey cobble streets under a cold drizzle, passing by the terraced houses, so identical one to the other that more than once, back from a Friday's evening drinking binge, one had ended the night sprawled in the living room of another’s, until I reached the threshold of my own house. For a long time I stood here, unmoving, facing the front door. I hadn’t realised it’d be so hard to turn home. At last, though, I turned the handle with a shaking hand and stepped into the vestibule.

“Kids!? Darling?” I shouted. “I’m back!”

Hell had only begun.
« Prev   3   Next »
#1 · 3
· · >>Ratlab >>The_Letter_J >>Monokeras
I like the tone here, and I think it's what the story succeeds with most. The mood is somber throughout, and that's not nearly as easy to pull off as people might think. It doesn't take much to overdo it. Particularly during the "party", you get a good sense the workers simply don't care about much of anything anymore. They seem too beaten.

However, I feel a lack of clarity keeps the story back. The narrator is experiencing depressing circumstances, but--and perhaps this is just me--I can't determine why. I have guesses, but none seems better than the other. Because of this, I can't take the emotional glum coming off the narrator's tone and attach it to anything concrete. Kinda like seeing somebody cry without knowing why they're crying. You can see their sorrow and in principle empathize, but you can't really connect--does that make sense?

but today it was different. No one felt in a hurry. No one had the guts to speak

welcoming for the last time the stroke of hot water

but they would soon end up on the dole, too.

Going by these clues (and the title), it's the narrator's last day as a coal miner, along with his co-workers, but not because the mine is shutting down. The 3rd line suggests the town runs its workers in shifts--how many times over I don't know.

Are they sad because they've lost work, or a camaraderie they've developed? They'll be hitting up the bar together later, and they all live in the same town. Speaking of which, the town is gated and guarded; this could mean lots of things.

The narrator's hesitation to enter their house is certainly interesting. Have they been away for very long? The last two lines I know are particularly important, but I don't know why. Why is being back home so bad? We're left with no indication (that I picked up, mind you).

I think some extra details would go a long way towards adding clarity and hooks to hang our emotions on. It seems like you're going for a subtle approach, but don't be afraid to loosen the belt a bit. After all, emotional impact and meaning isn't delivered through subtlety, but clear revelation. The revelation may arise from subtle details, but it isn't their subtlety which gives them impact, it's understanding what those details mean. If you can't do that, how do you know what to feel?

Anyhoo, some more information on what's going on and why the narrator feels the way they do about home would be very helpful. ^.^
#2 ·
· · >>The_Letter_J >>Monokeras
This is definitely all about the tone. Unlike axis_of_rotation, I did think that the mine was shutting down. There still seemed to be coal in it, so I'd guess either an accident, or just that it wasn't economical anymore.

The one thing that caught me off guard was it apparently not being in the US; I had it pegged firmly in Appalachia until that line. It's flimsy, but from the 'comrades,' maybe it's in the USSR? The ending was interesting as well; it seems like the fellow is putting up a front to his family.

>>axis_of_rotation, I think the guards were on the mine, not the town?

It did a good job setting the mood, but the prose was occasionally clunky (or at least I would have worded it differently)

For example,
the more mundane, lighter limestone layers

I'm not sure 'more mundane' really adds much. Also,
Not a word was pronounced

isn't very colloquial. I would have probably phrased it 'No one said a word'

Quibbles aside, I found it atmospheric, and liked a lot of the little details and actions that managed to evoke emotion without being too heavy handed about it. Good show vs tell.
#3 ·
· · >>Monokeras
Driving the Last Spike - B+ — Really well described, but leaves the reader clawing a little for air over what is being described. Yeah, yeah, I know. Show, don’t tell. Still, what?
#4 ·
· · >>Monokeras
All I can do here is echo >>axis_of_rotation's comment. The author did well with the mood, but it seems like we're missing a few important clues that we need to figure out what's going on here.

It does look to me like the mine is shutting down, but the party and such seem to suggest that this is a cause for celebration, and I can't figure out a way to put it all together. Like >>Ratlab said, this might take place in the USSR, so maybe communism is involved somehow? I really have no idea.
#5 ·
· · >>Monokeras
I'm going to have to parrot everyone else in that I'm really not sure what's going on. I mean, what kind of event would make the one speaker break down while still requiring perfunctory applause after the director's speech?

I know that focusing on the ambiguity of the piece might seem unfair with regards to what the piece did do well, but honestly, this is a pretty big problem, IMHO. When someone reads a minific, they expect to have a good idea of what kind of story they're reading pretty early on. When you have so few words to tell a story with, you really can't afford to have readers confused for much of the story, let alone all of it. It's really easy to feel unconnected to the story when you know it's going to end soon and you're not even sure what it's about.

Looking back at winners of previous minific events, virtually none of them have any sort of ambiguity about their premises. They often let you know exactly what's going on within the first 30 or 40 words. There's really no overstating the importance get your readers invested as soon as possible. Be quick and punchy, even at the risk of overstating things.
#6 · 1
·
>>axis_of_rotation
>>Ratlab
>>georg
>>The_Letter_J
>>Bachiavellian

Hey! Thanks to all for your positive reviews, at least on the descriptions. The fic was inspired by the 80’s economic crisis in the UK that saw many mines shut down under Thatcher's iron fist, a gloomy period which is partly portrayed by the film Billy Eliott and Sting’s song We work the black seam together. The title itself is borrowed from the eponymous Genesis's song, which tackles another subject, namely the fate of the workers who laid down the first UK railways. A great song if you care to listen to it.

So yes, the mine is shutting down, and the direction has organised a small shindig when the last shift finishes. I used “comrades” because many miners were communists, and that's probably the word they'd use to refer to their coworkers.

It wasn't easy to slip into the skin of a miner about to be laid off, neither was it to write a fic without a word being spoken. I am glad I succeeded in recreating the atmosphere and that you found the descriptions great.

But I'm still a long way from joining the finals. See you in two weeks and good luck + kudos to all the finalists! Well done folks! :P