I’ve been in migraine hell, it took so long to hammer this one out.
The trouble with Some Guy Party is I have a ton of prompts I could write for but they mostly don’t have a chronological order to them. So it feels weird to assign them a number (this being four), or even to start writing one before another knowing it’ll have some effect on the next and therein become ‘first’.
Not far from the county governing body, a former wetland now wetland once more swamps the former county governing body. With no other jobs of particular interest to take up, the party concedes to participating in the years-going effort to retrieve materials from the flooded body. They’re afforded a wide boat that rides high on the water and skims over shallows. While shifting the boat’s load, the sizeable stone dropper manages to dip one side low enough to take on water.
At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with cook house—one tells the sizeable stone dropper not to beat himself up too much about it. “At least you didn’t sink the thing.”
“Might not I tomorrow?” he bellyached into the belly-satisfying meal provided by the effort’s cook.
One pats the sizeable stone dropper’s shoulder. “Tomorrow might not you in the boat?”
For the floors above water, with a building emptied of its contents and accoutrement, plaster was to be knocked out to pull timbers. The sizeable stone dropper drops the cloth protecting his face from plaster dust to drink water, the resulting coughing fit has him tumble between wall-less timbers into the swamp.
At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with firepit burning day and night—one stamps out embers that burst from damp wood and land too near the former damp sizeable stone dropper sitting too near the fire. “Could have been worse.”
“Could have?” his tremulous of cold voice turns credulous of ‘this is better, you mean that?’.
One puts an arm across the sizeable stone dropper’s shoulders. “Could have been shallows.”
The distance from above water to boat was aided by a pulley system. A heavy timber would be securely affixed and slowly lowered. Having near sunk the boat and having struggled with plaster dust, the sizeable stone dropper is on pulley duty when the affixed timber tumbles prematurely. His borrowed leather gloves oversized catch in the pulleys before his hands can, halting the timber’s fall onto one on the boat below.
At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with curative tent—one studies the remarkable lack of injury to the sizeable stone dropper’s hands and applies salve regardless. “Foolish of you.”
“Would been worse of you if I’d not,” he countered, once again recounting which of the two had been in peril.
“I am of mind.” One’s voice, for all its surety, is a little thin from said peril’s scare.
“If you’re of mind, then take care of oneself.”
One laughs. “Of mind of yourself.”
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