Other stories for this prompt

Peasants. They wouldn't understand. Or perhaps couldn't. Yes. I like that. Their brains too small to grasp the magnitude of this installation.

My art has always... eluded those without intellect.

For example, to the untrained eye and mind, my first installation looked like a series of bricks, forming a wall. If you didn't notice the mortar, it looked just like that. A wall. "Oh, hey, is this the wall guy?" That's how the peons remembered me. The wall guy.

My next installation wasn't much better. Televisions playing to televisions, broadcasting video of televisions. This was before Facebook, even. Don't tell...

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"Peasants," I said as I walked by a group huddled together speaking in their annoying voices and telling stupid stories. Every one of them are peasants.
Nobody was as kind as I was, as smart as I was, as talented as I was, as beautiful as I was.
I allowed the peasants to live in my world. They will never be up to my standards. But I allowed them so be.
My butler brought me an my-cream sundae with gold flakes sprinkled on top,on a solid gold platter, with a white gold spoon that had diamonds embedded in the handle....

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We all are peasants.

I am a peasant, endlessly tilling the vast land of my master. I have a perpetual inclination to become a slave for lack of education.

Still, I am not ashamed of what I am. My legacy, which I have inherited from my forefathers, will go on for posterity's sake. My sons and daughters will continue to till land. But I guarantee that the land would be theirs to cultivate, for I am about to storm the walls of my master.

May God have mercy on his soul!

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Peasants. That's what he called them. To their faces. Idiots. Perverts.

The fact they were his employers didn't seem to matter at that very moment. They sacked him and it wasn't until he was standing in the street in the pouring rain that he wondered what on earth had happened.

One moment he was being congratulated for achieving the top sales rank that month, next he was shoved out the back door clutching his P45.

As he looked through the window, he could see Riley, smirking. Something was odd about this as Riley was his best friend.

Back in the...

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Peasants. The term had only been approved by the Officals a few weeks ago and now, everyone of my Group was referred to as a Peasant. Grandmother used to tell stories about the people who used to be called Peasants. They were basically slaves and very poor but that was hundreds of years ago. Today in 2796, the Officals won't allow anyone to accuse them of abusing their citizens so we are provided with enough food and shelter and clothes to stay alive. Alive. No, that's not right. We survive. Here, we don't really live. At least, not in the...

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These three peasants are gathered round a plough, drinking ale and sharing a small knob of cheese between themselves. It's a sunny day in Northumbria and the midday sun makes it hard to work, so these guys are taking a break. The ale is cheap and the cheese is rotten.

"You see the sunset last night?" asks one.
"Yes. It was beautiful." agrees a second. The third peasant doesn't speak. He just stares lengthways down the field.

"See that cow?" he finally interrupts. "Rumour is that it's magic." The others are intrigued now and stare down the field at the...

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"Peasants," he thought, and stuck his pitchfork into a square of hay.

"What do they know about building a good, angry mob?"

He hoisted the bale onto a workbench and began teasing handfuls of straw out, putting them in neat piles.

He came from a family of mob organizers and leaders. Three generations of good, strong men who knew how to lead a group of frothing townsfolk up mountain passes, across fields and to the front gates of witches, evil doctors and foreign-born ne'r do-wells.

The secret to a good mob was in staying organized. Make sure everybody's got something...

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She was beautiful, her hair fell in raven waves down to the small of her back, there was a crimson ribbon taming it. She wore a long skirt and a half corset over a white sleeveless blouse, the srimson was the only colour she wore, everything else was dull greys and browns.

He was furious, how could they twist his words this way, corrupt what he wrote. It was his story, it was supposed to be new and revolutionary but all he got was the same tired cliche, over and over again. So much for modern reinterpretation.

So much for...

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Peasants. Every last one of them, with their cheap hairspray and horrid distaste in bowties.

I stood at the edge of the sixty second annual GreatVac vacuum door-to-door salesmen conference in a state of disbelief. These people were my peers? My coworkers? My confidantes? Not a civilized, educated human being appeared to be in the room.

Barbarians. You would think that GreatVac, a company founded in 1904 on good American values would have a bit more poised and elegant populace.

And clearly the organizers of this event had very poor catering skills, as the punch was repugnant and the finger...

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His back leaned against a wall while his dust ridden face peered down at the ground. His eyes darted from one cigarette butt to the next, and finally, made a triangle with a crushed beer can. Counting the butts and the cans, he slowly peeled his foot off the wall and languidly marched down the street.

"Spare chang'?" he mumbled to a passerby, reluctantly looking into their eyes. No verbal answer came except for the heavy footsteps gaining speed as the man in a white collar shirt passed him.

"Spare chang'?" he grunted again to a group of young twenty-somethings...

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About the prompt

Originally displayed on:
June 29, 2011


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