People used to think old things must be valuable antiques. Now, when something is old it just gets thrown out. Planned obsolescence. Electronics, furniture, home goods are all disposable.
Now people, who we used to go to for advice, are just as obsolete, invisible. We have all manner of drugs to help you live longer and keep your mind sharp. What good does that do when your son or daughter puts you in a “home”?
Us antiques have had enough. We’re using old tech to take our lives back. The revolution won’t be bloodless, but they won’t see us coming.
"For some reason, I thought you would live in the penthouse," she said, sipping the noir-rouge of the carmenere. “Mmmmm peppery.”
"For some reason," he said, pausing then smiling "the sense of being ...underground... brings me great comfort."
They eyed each other. She let out an almost laugh, thinking she knew what he was thinking behind those eyes.
"I like this," she said, wandering the dim-lit room and pointing at an abstract painting. "Only... It's very modern. I thought you'd have, I don't know, antiques or something.
"When one is as old as I, one develops a taste for...younger things."
"No one calls a seven iron a mashie-niblick anymore, Larry."
"Well I do."
The clubhouse barman just dried a few more glasses and concealed a little smirk. Then poured each of them another. Amber spirit liquid. There were puddles of it on the floor at various strategic locations where the enema-riddled undead tended to perch. He would have to clear that up yet again.
Larry sighed, took a long draught, and eyed up the new guy again. "Just how old are you, kid?"
"Not as old as you, clearly."
"Well, when I come from, it's a mashie-niblick. So remember that, when you're caddying for me tomorrow, eh."
"Uh?"
"You're the new guy round here. So that means you caddy."
"But that's how I got dead in the first place!"
"Yep," swigs Larry, "caddying carries a whole new world o' risks in this place, as you are about to learn..."
‘Don’t go upstairs when the clock chimes thirteen times.’
One of his late aunt’s silly stories.
Today, his mission was to clean her antique house. She’d kept everything from her grandfather.
Midday sunshine fell on the rows of wooden sticks, half his height. He picked up one filled with notches.
He heard the clock, and then he heard ... horses? Suddenly, he was thrown into chaos. Fights. Arrows. Fire. Screams.
A knife was flying fast towards his face. He blocked it just in time with the wooden stick. One new notch appeared when he was thrown back into the house.
Antique 100 words (full disclosure, I doubt car lifts work like this)
The car sits on its lift, high above me. A man holds a box cutter, rolling it in his hand. “Morality is an antique, a superannuated standard. Out of date.”
He slides the blade out to catch a spark of fluorescence. I scream through the grease-stained rags.
“I have never been much taken with antiques…”
He bends down close to me. “They are only valuable so long as someone else desires them.” He makes a tiny puncture in the hydraulic hose. Air hisses, and the car begins to slowly descend toward me. I scream and thrash beneath the impending undercarriage.
There's a bunch of safety mechanisms in car lifts, but in theory it could work like this. I used to study car electronics, so I spent quite some time with car lifts, and I was always terrified the car would just drop on me haha.
B. considered herself a minimalist. Not a single print nor color was allowed to upset the equilibrium of the stark white lines that defined her decorating style.
This spareness was in complete dichotomy to the dark, old house of her childhood, which could have been mistaken for a dusty antique store.
She refused the steady stream of family “junk” that her mother tried to pawn off on her. With one exception, a green porcelain vase that she placed alone on a sleek Italian bookshelf.
Her mother swore it was from the Qianlong dynasty.
The minimalists always have that one thing, that they can't get rid off even when it doesn't fit their neat space, but at the same time, it not fitting often makes the space look better
The soft ticking filled the space, making its way around the stacks of old tomes, dusty papers, and oil lamps that had not been used in half a century.
My father had often spoke of my grandfather and how he spent all his time searching for the secret to the old device and almost every memory came with the constant, unchanging ticking.
I stepped forward to the desk. The sound came from beneath a paper I carefully removed.
The ancient machine stood there, ticking to itself, as the thousand brass gears that made it up continued their dance of mystery.
I had been waiting in this long line at the Division of Motor Vehicles. Reaching the guy at the window, I passed him my paperwork. He looked at the application form, and shook his head. “Why can’t I renew the license for my car,” I said. “I’ve had this car my whole life. It’s practically the oldest member of my family. This sweet baby purrs like a kitten. She runs great, and she can’t be hot wired like some of those Korean rice burners.” “It’s ok,” he said. “You need a special form now because your car is an antique.”
I sold my first car a bit before it could reach the antique/veteran (that's what we call it here) status. Mitsubishi Eclipse second gen. A machine that will forever live in my heart.
I've decided to rise up to the challenge and see what I can come up with. I had to come at it from a different direction though.
Aunt Tique stood at the edge of the pier and watched the tug drop its line, releasing the ship like a sigh. The scream of gulls in the air mirrored the smell of the ocean in the churning ship’s propeller. She turned away, the wind catching her dress, fluttering through it as if it was a sail. I reached a hand out, and she took it, held it like a breath, smiling down at me as we turned and headed back to the car. “That’s how one lets go,” she said. “No waves, no tears; the echo of a sigh.”
I wake with a startled groan. ‘Oh lord I feel like crap!’ Only 75 days until retirement when I can finally do, what? When I can finally be, what? I’m almost 60 years old. How can I still be so confused? I thought 18 was where life began. Only now do I realize that everything up to now was a pale imitation of the new blank page before me. By God antiques like me are made of sterner stuff. I’ll be a glorious unfettered whirlwind up until the last grain of sand lands on the shiny teakwood bottom of my hourglass.
Antique roadhouse. 1962 Fender Stratocaster guitar owned by Beach boys worth 48K today. Life continues to be a blur. I have two shots Antique bourbon. Left the house on a whim-walk to used furniture shop. A woman enters, looks around. She sees a light through crack in the window; follows the light to a conch shell. Given a bargain price, she’s probably expecting to find a pearl. I check framed pictures. Two Picasso prints, each $5. . I buy one. The woman listens. I start to leave, turn around, to buy the other poster, now gone. Blame my impaired Antique bourbon judgment.
I love your take on this one, my friend!
PROMPT: ANTIQUE
THE CLOCK
One evening, as he walked home from work, he noticed an ornate clock had appeared in the window of a little antique shop.
The hands were indicating it was ten.
The following evening, it said nine.
Then eight.
By the time it hit seven, he was starting to panic.
It was trying to warn him about something, he was sure of it.
He stressed himself out so much, he collapsed long before he ever saw the countdown reach one.
Which was when the shop owner switched out the lights for the last time, having completed his ten-day closing down sale… 🕰️😎🕰️
People used to think old things must be valuable antiques. Now, when something is old it just gets thrown out. Planned obsolescence. Electronics, furniture, home goods are all disposable.
Now people, who we used to go to for advice, are just as obsolete, invisible. We have all manner of drugs to help you live longer and keep your mind sharp. What good does that do when your son or daughter puts you in a “home”?
Us antiques have had enough. We’re using old tech to take our lives back. The revolution won’t be bloodless, but they won’t see us coming.
"For some reason, I thought you would live in the penthouse," she said, sipping the noir-rouge of the carmenere. “Mmmmm peppery.”
"For some reason," he said, pausing then smiling "the sense of being ...underground... brings me great comfort."
They eyed each other. She let out an almost laugh, thinking she knew what he was thinking behind those eyes.
"I like this," she said, wandering the dim-lit room and pointing at an abstract painting. "Only... It's very modern. I thought you'd have, I don't know, antiques or something.
"When one is as old as I, one develops a taste for...younger things."
That last line makes my skin crawl lmao.
job done!
"No one calls a seven iron a mashie-niblick anymore, Larry."
"Well I do."
The clubhouse barman just dried a few more glasses and concealed a little smirk. Then poured each of them another. Amber spirit liquid. There were puddles of it on the floor at various strategic locations where the enema-riddled undead tended to perch. He would have to clear that up yet again.
Larry sighed, took a long draught, and eyed up the new guy again. "Just how old are you, kid?"
"Not as old as you, clearly."
"Well, when I come from, it's a mashie-niblick. So remember that, when you're caddying for me tomorrow, eh."
"Uh?"
"You're the new guy round here. So that means you caddy."
"But that's how I got dead in the first place!"
"Yep," swigs Larry, "caddying carries a whole new world o' risks in this place, as you are about to learn..."
Microdosing Fiction - 100mg of Antique
===
‘Don’t go upstairs when the clock chimes thirteen times.’
One of his late aunt’s silly stories.
Today, his mission was to clean her antique house. She’d kept everything from her grandfather.
Midday sunshine fell on the rows of wooden sticks, half his height. He picked up one filled with notches.
He heard the clock, and then he heard ... horses? Suddenly, he was thrown into chaos. Fights. Arrows. Fire. Screams.
A knife was flying fast towards his face. He blocked it just in time with the wooden stick. One new notch appeared when he was thrown back into the house.
Antique 100 words (full disclosure, I doubt car lifts work like this)
The car sits on its lift, high above me. A man holds a box cutter, rolling it in his hand. “Morality is an antique, a superannuated standard. Out of date.”
He slides the blade out to catch a spark of fluorescence. I scream through the grease-stained rags.
“I have never been much taken with antiques…”
He bends down close to me. “They are only valuable so long as someone else desires them.” He makes a tiny puncture in the hydraulic hose. Air hisses, and the car begins to slowly descend toward me. I scream and thrash beneath the impending undercarriage.
Not bad! (Only it wouldn't be air but hydraulic fluid.)
nasty! did he die from exhaustion? was he left to fender for himself?
That joke is two tired.
I can't decide whether to laugh or groan... maybe both!
There's a bunch of safety mechanisms in car lifts, but in theory it could work like this. I used to study car electronics, so I spent quite some time with car lifts, and I was always terrified the car would just drop on me haha.
B. considered herself a minimalist. Not a single print nor color was allowed to upset the equilibrium of the stark white lines that defined her decorating style.
This spareness was in complete dichotomy to the dark, old house of her childhood, which could have been mistaken for a dusty antique store.
She refused the steady stream of family “junk” that her mother tried to pawn off on her. With one exception, a green porcelain vase that she placed alone on a sleek Italian bookshelf.
Her mother swore it was from the Qianlong dynasty.
B. had no intention of finding out.
The minimalists always have that one thing, that they can't get rid off even when it doesn't fit their neat space, but at the same time, it not fitting often makes the space look better
Perhaps it is the one thing that represents all the messy stuff that’s hidden beneath the surface.
This was fun!
The soft ticking filled the space, making its way around the stacks of old tomes, dusty papers, and oil lamps that had not been used in half a century.
My father had often spoke of my grandfather and how he spent all his time searching for the secret to the old device and almost every memory came with the constant, unchanging ticking.
I stepped forward to the desk. The sound came from beneath a paper I carefully removed.
The ancient machine stood there, ticking to itself, as the thousand brass gears that made it up continued their dance of mystery.
Very atmospheric I like it!
I had been waiting in this long line at the Division of Motor Vehicles. Reaching the guy at the window, I passed him my paperwork. He looked at the application form, and shook his head. “Why can’t I renew the license for my car,” I said. “I’ve had this car my whole life. It’s practically the oldest member of my family. This sweet baby purrs like a kitten. She runs great, and she can’t be hot wired like some of those Korean rice burners.” “It’s ok,” he said. “You need a special form now because your car is an antique.”
Thanks for all the "likes." I enjoy these challenges. They are a kind of palate cleanser for me.
I sold my first car a bit before it could reach the antique/veteran (that's what we call it here) status. Mitsubishi Eclipse second gen. A machine that will forever live in my heart.
I've decided to rise up to the challenge and see what I can come up with. I had to come at it from a different direction though.
Aunt Tique stood at the edge of the pier and watched the tug drop its line, releasing the ship like a sigh. The scream of gulls in the air mirrored the smell of the ocean in the churning ship’s propeller. She turned away, the wind catching her dress, fluttering through it as if it was a sail. I reached a hand out, and she took it, held it like a breath, smiling down at me as we turned and headed back to the car. “That’s how one lets go,” she said. “No waves, no tears; the echo of a sigh.”
Beautiful! Coming from different directions is what we're here for! Thank you for joining in Ben
I think I finished writing my Locksley book, so I might be able to free up some time. Although I do want to go through an edit or three.
Very clever!
Wow, thanks!
Relic
Dust coated the glass dome, but the object inside gleamed—an ancient mask, black as obsidian with faintly glowing lines.
“Pre-collapse artifact,” the sign read
I leaned closer. My reflection warped on its surface as if the mask moved, breathing.
The attendant smirked. “Rumor is, it chooses.”
I scoffed and turned away.
“Help me,” a voice rasped.
I froze
Slowly, I turned back.
The mask was gone from the glass dome.
Cold metal pressed against my face. My vision darkened.
When the light returned, the world looked… sharper.
“Welcome back, the attendant said, bowing low. “We’ve waited centuries.”
spooky and intruguing!
Thank you!
I wake with a startled groan. ‘Oh lord I feel like crap!’ Only 75 days until retirement when I can finally do, what? When I can finally be, what? I’m almost 60 years old. How can I still be so confused? I thought 18 was where life began. Only now do I realize that everything up to now was a pale imitation of the new blank page before me. By God antiques like me are made of sterner stuff. I’ll be a glorious unfettered whirlwind up until the last grain of sand lands on the shiny teakwood bottom of my hourglass.
100 words. Antique
Antique roadhouse. 1962 Fender Stratocaster guitar owned by Beach boys worth 48K today. Life continues to be a blur. I have two shots Antique bourbon. Left the house on a whim-walk to used furniture shop. A woman enters, looks around. She sees a light through crack in the window; follows the light to a conch shell. Given a bargain price, she’s probably expecting to find a pearl. I check framed pictures. Two Picasso prints, each $5. . I buy one. The woman listens. I start to leave, turn around, to buy the other poster, now gone. Blame my impaired Antique bourbon judgment.
Love this one.
Thank you Teyani!
Thank you Bill, Victor and Scott for the likes.