ruins, journalists, and pirates
4/25/20 - Another 3 word writing exercise - this time with “ruins, journalists, and pirate.” Tried a more contemporary style/setting than I’m usually comfortable with. Also I went ahead and censored out any curse words in case you’re a younger writer <3
Hester cursed as her foot slipped, the stone crumbling beneath her as she gripped Tristan’s sleeve to balance herself. Tristan, being the boulder of a man that he was, hadn’t even budged.
“I hate this place,” she said, glaring first at the stone tumbling down into the dark pit beside them, before directing her anger at her partner. She lifted the wool fisted in her hands. “And I can’t believe you wore a [censored] cardigan for an excavation.”
“I get cold,” he said, frowning. Hester scoffed. At 6 foot 4 with muscles the size of a head, Tristan was practically a furnace. It really was her luck that she got stuck with a bodyguard sensitive to a breeze.
Maybe the whole job was a crapshoot from the start, Hester thought. Sweat dripped down her shirt, pooling in every crevice of her body. The lunch she packed had long since fallen into the hell pit when she had last slipped. And yet Tristan, a literally hulking rock, hadn’t so much as taken a step off beat.
She hated this so, so much. A scoop on the Deseri Ruins? Please. Aside from a few memes and new Area-51 jokes, this place was a lost cause. Hester can’t believe she let Jules con her into this again.
“Keep it moving,” Hester snapped.
An eyebrow arch. “Sure, Boss.”
Hester’s blood boiled. She kicked at his ankles. Dust swirled up from the movement, filling her lungs so that her next words came out as a hack. “Am I paying you to talk back to me?”
Tristan said nothing, only continued forward. Hester glared holes at the back of his head.
Must be nice to just be a brute. Hester stuck her hands into her jacket and fiddled with the pen there, knowing the inside of her pockets must be lined with ink. She can already hear it now: Has Been Hester. Shooting star journalist. Couldn’t take the heat and burned too quickly on impact.
How the hell was she supposed to prove them wrong with the Deseri ruins?
Then, the sensation of falling.
Oh, yes, from fame and good standing and love — Hester was used to those — but in this particular scenario: Hester was legitimately, in the most literal sense of the word, falling.
Everything moved in slow motion. Tristan’s hand outstretched towards her. Another stone falling under her. She wondered if having her last word be “[Censored]-” would make a newsheadline. Something like, Journalist Falls to Death: Can’t Even Say A Nice Word Before It.
Nah. Too long.
Hester fell. The wind whistled past, her hair whipping across every direction.
Damn, this sucks. Darkness swallowed her the further she went, until the dusk sky was only a bare pinprick. Hester closed her eyes, and —
Impact.
~
A rustle. Hands in her jacket. They take out her pen.
“The hell is this?” Someone croaks.
Hester swears to God. If someone is stealing from her fucking corpse, she’s about to reanimate herself just to kick their ass. This shit ain’t even grave digging. They’re stealing a pen. Truly, a new low.
“Wake up.” A woman’s voice.
“...God?” Hester asks. She quints up towards the sun, shielding her eyes from the glare.
A snort of laughter. “You hear that ‘Cap? Usually, they call ya Angel.”
“Must like me then,” the woman laughs, voice smooth and low. Dark hair tumbles into Hester’s vision as the figure crouches. A finger pinches her chin and shoves her face from side to side. “Not too bad herself. You with us, sweetheart?”
“No one's sweetheart.” Hester spits out. Hester Imelia, talking back to Death. She’s going to hell anyway, right?
Another laugh. “Alright, honey. No sweetheart.” She smiles, pretty and demure, before she slaps Hester across the face. “But ‘round here, you call me Captain.” A cackle, hoots from the rest of the crew. The next smile on the woman’s face is a grin, wicked and sharp. “You must’ve been one hell of a [censored] in your previous life to end up here.”
