Traditional Pros
The Gold Diggers by David Hanson Word count: 530 James coughed for what seemed to be the twentieth time in just five minutes as dust flew everywhere. Ronan paid the chokes no mind at all. “Ronan, why the hell are we digging through all this junk again?” “To find buried treasure,” replied Ronan. “Buried treasure in an old warehouse? Right…” “Do you not believe me?” “No. Not really.” “Well, you can go home then.” “Hold it,” interrupted Steven. “Ronan’s right. We could easily find something worth a pretty penny in this place.” “Like what?” said Ronan huffily. “Well, you see, long ago in a warehouse just like this one, I found a gold cigarette lighter that had an engraved initial. The initials were ‘T. R. M.’ and was in shoebox marked out to have belonged to a ‘Robert Holmes’.” “ ‘T. R. M.’?” questioned Ronan. “ ‘The Royal Mariners’,” said James. “I think that that’s what it stands for.” Steven grinned. “You’d be right, the famous old club that still goes on to this day.” He went back to rummaging through a pile of junk behind him. “Robert Holmes,” he went on, “was my Uncle Terry’s father, the Uncle Terry that married my Aunt Lucy. The value that lighter had when my Uncle Terry saw it was priceless, thing’s worth some two grand because of the club’s initial alone. Therefore, it’s imperative we find something of value in this heap, if not for me, for Uncle Terry. Man put himself in crutches looking for that lighter, that he did.” But try as they might, the boys searched hour after hour, but found nothing. Cheap bronze cups and unremarkable little lamps and boxes were all to be seen among the piles. It was nearly sundown, James and Ronan grunted as they tried to push an old desk away, when both began to cough furiously when the movement unleashed a swarm of dust particles. James, who couldn’t stand the specks, stumbled and fell onto a laid down bookshelf and the pain shot through his back. “James!” cried Ronan. “You all right?” “No,” came a wheezing reply, James looked pale and unwell, the hours of labor were taking their toll. “Steven,” said Ronan, “come on, we’ve done all that we can to find something, but all we’ve gotten so far are sore muscles and dust in our lungs.” Steven grimaced and didn’t reply. He heard James’ coughs; they were heavy and sickening to the stomach. Steven tried to block them out, but even then, the putrid smell of his surroundings was beginning to get to him. At one point he heard rummaging as Ronan led James out, he attempted to push aside an oil drum to look underneath when he suddenly fell and scraped his knee. Steven hissed, stood up, and choked on the heavy, musty air. He looked around, the place beginning to look vile. “Perhaps I should’ve gone with them already,” he muttered, looking out to the night sky – he felt a soft breeze against his sweaty skin and his lungs relished taking in the fresh air. Slowly and carefully, Steven clambered toward his car. Keen to not try warehouse digging for a long while. His bloody knee certainly agreed!
