dadevvtsvre
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Alright. A couple of weeks back we were given an assignment in my writing class to come up with a short story that was roughly about 10 pages, double spaced. It had to tell a complete story, but that was basically the only restriction; everything else was up to us.
For some reason I really wanted to do something in a post-apocalyptic setting. It was originally going to be a man caring for his sick daughter in a flooded city, but then I realized it was too much like The Road. So then it was a man all alone in the city looking for other humans. Then I realized it was basically I Am Legend.
So I kept the flooded post-apocalyptic city idea, but changed the protagonist to a sociopath who couldn't care less for other people's lives. I wanted him to be a guy who was actually really glad that everyone else was dead. That's all I can say, really.
Anyway. I haven't gotten it back because my teacher's reading it over the holidays, but I thought I'd post it here to see what you guys thought, and because this forum is borderline dead.
It's... not as thoroughly edited as I would have preferred, so there's bound to be some awkward phrasing and cringe-inducing sentences in there. Just a warning.
* * * * *
Shadows dance between ruins of skyscrapers as the sun lays to rest. Bricks and mortar are dimmed as the light recedes, and shattered panes of glass, no longer illuminated, reflect nothing. Hazy clouds distort the glare of the sun, and the air is thick with blots of brown and grey. Water laps at rusted steel, penetrating the lower floors of massive towers that dot the landscape. To the right of the balcony on which I stand, the ruins of what was once an apartment building lay in a crumpled heap of cement and twisted foundations. It is a stark reminder of the sea’s relentless power, another trophy for its collection. I shiver. The city is cooling fast; the wind is from the southeast tonight. Soon, the final rays of sunlight will disappear, given way to the suffocating darkness of night. The stars will not be out tonight.
As the final luminous beams of light evaporate into umber glow, I unravel the fabric that covers my face. The fabric has been bleached by radiation and soaked with sweat, but my skin is still healthy, and that is what truly matters. Next, I take off the thick black goggles that cover my eyes, so that I may gain a clearer view of my surroundings. My eyes are safe now. The light cannot harm me when it is not there. Nothing can harm me when I am alone.
From the balcony I turn and enter the apartment. I toss the fabric and goggles onto a couch that is ripped, torn and buried in discarded clothes. The rotting hardwood floor is covered in shards of glass and ashes that swirl lazily when I move. The wallpaper had peeled away long before my arrival, exposing flimsy drywall that crumbles and breaks at the slightest touch. Many years ago, this apartment would have been considered disgusting, a total wreck – but nobody cleaned anymore. Nobody has done much cleaning in a long time.
Tom Sawyer stares at me from his perch on a tattered plaid cushion that lies on the ground. His leather-bound pages exude curiosity and mischief. He demands that he accompany me on my excursion, but I refuse. Tom has distracted me far too many times, and I refuse to put up with his tricks. Atticus Finch, from his seat on an ivory-coated table, commends me on my decision. I mutter a thank-you. Atticus nods, but Tom frowns. I cannot please everybody, it would seem.
I enter the kitchen to prepare for my excursion. Here, food items and clothes litter the tiled floor and counters. Holden Caulfield, his innards yellowed and torn, turns away to ignore me from his position on a dysfunctional oven. I felt the same way once, I tell him, as I pack various granola bars and bottles of water into a large traveling bag. Still he does not listen. I will have to deal with him when I return, I think to myself. But not now. Time is slipping away, and the sun will not rest for long.
As I toss my bag over my shoulder and prepare to leave the apartment, something hits my foot. Elizabeth Bennet stares back up at me with eyes full of hope. I exit, and shut the door firmly behind me. My friends will be safe in there, I think. Nobody will come to harm them tonight.
I descend the staircase that zigzags through the heart of this building, making leaps over places where the steps have collapsed. When I reach the fifth floor, I enter another apartment. Water licks a mouldy carpet here, and the overwhelming scent of the sea permeates the air. My boat is still here, roped to an exposed plank in the wall, bobbing up and down with the movements of the waves. Her plastic sail lays flat with no wind to fill it, and her body, nailed together from the a broken canoe, remains as splendid as before. I lob my bag into the frame, detach the rope that binds her to this building and, climbing in, we set off for another night in the city.
As I leave the confined ruins of the fifth floor apartment and enter the main canals that snake their way throughout the district, I take another look at the sky. Low, dark clouds hang over the structures that tower above and watch the streets below. I think of the skyscrapers, sometimes, as guardians, protectors of the city. Standing together in the face of adversity, but still, empty shells of their former being. The wind has begun to grow stronger. My sail catches the sea’s breath and we are thrust forward through the streets, each gust laced with moisture and energy. Quick work will be needed tonight. A storm is brewing.
I wonder, sometimes, about the people that inhabited this city. It strikes me, at times, as odd. How the millions that once called these apartments their home were so quickly eradicated. I find myself struggling to remember the last time I saw another human. My encounters were never pleasant and rarely ended well for both parties. Humans, it would seem, turned vicious and feral when their precious commodities were stripped away. The toughest barely stood a chance. And now that it has been so long since I last contacted another human, I begin to doubt whether I will ever see another again.
The water is restless. Wind-driven swells battle and clash where it is funneled in alleyways and it froths and spatters where brick meets ocean. As the first drops of rain make contact with the surface, ripples spread throughout the streets, contributing to the chaos. My sail flays back and forth. I struggle with the increasing ferocity of the storm. Seconds melt into minutes, minutes melt into hours. Time is meaningless. My frustration rises.
The gale howls. Lightning flashes in the sky. Distorted remains of the city are briefly visible to my eyes. Deep beneath the waves, the current is restless. I grab hold of my bag. I cannot see where I am going. I cannot tell where I have left. I cannot understand who I am.
And there it was, expanding before me, a gaping abyss waiting to devour its prey. The ocean. I was leaving the city behind, and I could not return.
Curiously, at that moment, my mind begins to wander. I thought not of the danger I was in, but of the land beneath the waves, the land that was once above. Of the innumerable cars and taxis that had sank and made the streets their watery grave. Of the shops and offices that were built close to the ground, the ones that had stood no chance against the forces of nature. And of the bodies, the thousands that had not left all that time ago; the brave souls that decided to stick it out, to face the sea where they stood, to never abandon their ships. They had been the lucky ones, truly, the ones that never had to see what their planet would become. There are none left.
A torrent of brackish water slams my head and I snap back to the present. Each flash of lighting makes light of the troubles I now face. My skull is pounding with the clamour of raging surf, my bones chilled to the very core.
In my stupor I do not see the swell forming behind me. While I am deep in thought the water has put a surge into action. The swell strikes me from behind, upturning my vessel, destroying my sail, launching me and my bag into the water. My bag sinks slowly. The shock wears off after a few moments, and I resurface.
I am floating out in the raging seas amidst the sudden storm. The constant deluge of spray forces my eyelids shut. Nothing matters anymore. Inches away from death, my books seem nothing more than insignificant commodities. Ink printed upon pages, nothing more. Anger.
I realize, as I struggle to take in another breath, that this is the first time I have left the city. I have never been here in my life.
A reprieve from the waves. I open my eyes.
An island, a mile away. Lightning is the only illumination, each flash revealing my salvation. Relief washes over me, but I am not safe yet. The sea is not happy with my discovery, and she is determined to make me her own.
I summon every morsel of energy left in my frail body. My head pounds, my ears ring. My fingers, numb and frozen, my vision blurred. Every movement I make is torture. With every stroke forward, I am pushed two strokes back. I swallow more water. My lungs struggle. I am nothing more than a plaything to these waves. With each passing second, it is harder to stay above the surface. My grip is weakening. I slip below the waves. I close my eyes.
Books cannot save me now.
Something grabs my wrist. A hand. I am pulled above the waves, and with a heave, I am hauled aboard a boat. I am still alive.
I fall upon the floor of the aluminum boat in a crumpled heat. Seawater surges from my throat. My lungs rejoice. I am shaking. My skin is white. My head is throbbing. But I am alive.
Concentrating on the presence, my eyes struggle to focus, but the outline of a man is clear. The rain has ceased. Still, the man says nothing.
Turning the engine with steady movements of his arm, the man pilots the boat towards the island. His clothes are soaked, and water drops from his matted hair onto his pointed face. He stares at the island. I look away.
The island grows steadily larger as we approach, and I realize that it is, in fact, not an island at all. What I thought was a lone pile of rocks turns out to be a peninsula that juts into the ocean. The shore is covered in stones and sediment, and evergreens appear sporadically across the soil. In the distance, the mainland sweeps across the horizon, and there are no buildings or signs of life in sight. I see now a dock; it is there we are heading. Dawn is approaching.
Minutes stretch into hours as we approach the pier. My companion climbs out of the boat and ties a rope securely to a pillar covered in algae. He reaches out his hand towards me in a gesture I do not recognize. I make my way out of the boat.
I hear strange noises emanating from the forest. They remind me of the gulls and pigeons that once inhabited the city. But these sounds are different. They cut through the air effortlessly, clear and precise. The first birds of the day are stirring.
Standing together on the pier, the man turns to look at me. For the first time I am granted a clear view of his deep blue eyes. They are striking. But I do not react. I am frozen.
His words ring out in the silence. “Who are you?”
My mind races. I open my mouth, but nothing escapes. I struggle to find a response. Predetermined retorts race through my mind, statements uttered by characters in distant worlds. Statements that do not belong to me. I am completely vulnerable.
He repeats his question. “Who are you?”
Back in my apartment in the city, my books have not moved. Their pages remain just as I left them – waiting in anticipation to be read. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer sits on a tattered plaid cushion that lies on the floor. To Kill a Mockingbird has not moved from its seat on the ivory-coated table. The Catcher in the Rye , from his position on a dysfunctional oven, turns from no one. Pride and Prejudice is still on the floor. It stares at nothing. I will never see my books again.
The man’s words repeat themselves in my head. I whisper, “Who am I?”
To the east, dawn is near. The black sky, slowly, is replaced with streaks of burgundy and crimson. Shadows begin to form where the light cannot reach, but as the day wears on they, too, will bathe in light.
“What’s your name?” asks the man. “You have a name, don’t you?”
“My name.”
A harsh wind blows across the pier. I realize that I am dressed only in a thin parka and ragged jeans. My teeth chatter. A look of concern spreads across the man’s face. Whether it is from my state or my lack of response, I do not know.
He speaks again. “Come on, now. How can I get to know you if you don’t tell me your name?”
Now the first signs of morning have arrived. The edge of the sun is clearly seen over the pointed trees of the mainland. The sky erupts into glorious shades of red and orange. The forest is alive with the songs of birds and stirring wildlife. Creatures, hidden in their burrows throughout the night, depart the safety of their homes to see another day.
“We have to communicate to make it out here,” the man says, crossing his arms. “Don’t you want to work with me?”
The man is confused by my hesitation, but I relax and enjoy the glory of the morning. My mouth forms a smile.
“I’d like that.”
Now the sun has finally begun to rise over the horizon. The light that abandoned me all that time ago has returned. Miles away, in the city, shadows dance between ruins of skyscrapers. Bricks and mortar are lit up as the light returns to power, and shattered panes of glass, now illuminated, reflect. The sky is cloudless, and the air is thick with blots of rose and brilliant gold.
The city had been cooling fast; the wind was from the southeast last night. The final rays of sunlight had disappeared, given way to the suffocating darkness of night. The stars were not out last night. But the past is gone. I have left the city behind.
I take a deep breath. I follow the man up a dirt path, off the pier, away from the ocean, towards the mainland. We walk in silence, sharing everything we know.
It is a new day.
For some reason I really wanted to do something in a post-apocalyptic setting. It was originally going to be a man caring for his sick daughter in a flooded city, but then I realized it was too much like The Road. So then it was a man all alone in the city looking for other humans. Then I realized it was basically I Am Legend.
So I kept the flooded post-apocalyptic city idea, but changed the protagonist to a sociopath who couldn't care less for other people's lives. I wanted him to be a guy who was actually really glad that everyone else was dead. That's all I can say, really.
Anyway. I haven't gotten it back because my teacher's reading it over the holidays, but I thought I'd post it here to see what you guys thought, and because this forum is borderline dead.
It's... not as thoroughly edited as I would have preferred, so there's bound to be some awkward phrasing and cringe-inducing sentences in there. Just a warning.
Shadows dance between ruins of skyscrapers as the sun lays to rest. Bricks and mortar are dimmed as the light recedes, and shattered panes of glass, no longer illuminated, reflect nothing. Hazy clouds distort the glare of the sun, and the air is thick with blots of brown and grey. Water laps at rusted steel, penetrating the lower floors of massive towers that dot the landscape. To the right of the balcony on which I stand, the ruins of what was once an apartment building lay in a crumpled heap of cement and twisted foundations. It is a stark reminder of the sea’s relentless power, another trophy for its collection. I shiver. The city is cooling fast; the wind is from the southeast tonight. Soon, the final rays of sunlight will disappear, given way to the suffocating darkness of night. The stars will not be out tonight.
As the final luminous beams of light evaporate into umber glow, I unravel the fabric that covers my face. The fabric has been bleached by radiation and soaked with sweat, but my skin is still healthy, and that is what truly matters. Next, I take off the thick black goggles that cover my eyes, so that I may gain a clearer view of my surroundings. My eyes are safe now. The light cannot harm me when it is not there. Nothing can harm me when I am alone.
From the balcony I turn and enter the apartment. I toss the fabric and goggles onto a couch that is ripped, torn and buried in discarded clothes. The rotting hardwood floor is covered in shards of glass and ashes that swirl lazily when I move. The wallpaper had peeled away long before my arrival, exposing flimsy drywall that crumbles and breaks at the slightest touch. Many years ago, this apartment would have been considered disgusting, a total wreck – but nobody cleaned anymore. Nobody has done much cleaning in a long time.
Tom Sawyer stares at me from his perch on a tattered plaid cushion that lies on the ground. His leather-bound pages exude curiosity and mischief. He demands that he accompany me on my excursion, but I refuse. Tom has distracted me far too many times, and I refuse to put up with his tricks. Atticus Finch, from his seat on an ivory-coated table, commends me on my decision. I mutter a thank-you. Atticus nods, but Tom frowns. I cannot please everybody, it would seem.
I enter the kitchen to prepare for my excursion. Here, food items and clothes litter the tiled floor and counters. Holden Caulfield, his innards yellowed and torn, turns away to ignore me from his position on a dysfunctional oven. I felt the same way once, I tell him, as I pack various granola bars and bottles of water into a large traveling bag. Still he does not listen. I will have to deal with him when I return, I think to myself. But not now. Time is slipping away, and the sun will not rest for long.
As I toss my bag over my shoulder and prepare to leave the apartment, something hits my foot. Elizabeth Bennet stares back up at me with eyes full of hope. I exit, and shut the door firmly behind me. My friends will be safe in there, I think. Nobody will come to harm them tonight.
I descend the staircase that zigzags through the heart of this building, making leaps over places where the steps have collapsed. When I reach the fifth floor, I enter another apartment. Water licks a mouldy carpet here, and the overwhelming scent of the sea permeates the air. My boat is still here, roped to an exposed plank in the wall, bobbing up and down with the movements of the waves. Her plastic sail lays flat with no wind to fill it, and her body, nailed together from the a broken canoe, remains as splendid as before. I lob my bag into the frame, detach the rope that binds her to this building and, climbing in, we set off for another night in the city.
As I leave the confined ruins of the fifth floor apartment and enter the main canals that snake their way throughout the district, I take another look at the sky. Low, dark clouds hang over the structures that tower above and watch the streets below. I think of the skyscrapers, sometimes, as guardians, protectors of the city. Standing together in the face of adversity, but still, empty shells of their former being. The wind has begun to grow stronger. My sail catches the sea’s breath and we are thrust forward through the streets, each gust laced with moisture and energy. Quick work will be needed tonight. A storm is brewing.
I wonder, sometimes, about the people that inhabited this city. It strikes me, at times, as odd. How the millions that once called these apartments their home were so quickly eradicated. I find myself struggling to remember the last time I saw another human. My encounters were never pleasant and rarely ended well for both parties. Humans, it would seem, turned vicious and feral when their precious commodities were stripped away. The toughest barely stood a chance. And now that it has been so long since I last contacted another human, I begin to doubt whether I will ever see another again.
The water is restless. Wind-driven swells battle and clash where it is funneled in alleyways and it froths and spatters where brick meets ocean. As the first drops of rain make contact with the surface, ripples spread throughout the streets, contributing to the chaos. My sail flays back and forth. I struggle with the increasing ferocity of the storm. Seconds melt into minutes, minutes melt into hours. Time is meaningless. My frustration rises.
The gale howls. Lightning flashes in the sky. Distorted remains of the city are briefly visible to my eyes. Deep beneath the waves, the current is restless. I grab hold of my bag. I cannot see where I am going. I cannot tell where I have left. I cannot understand who I am.
And there it was, expanding before me, a gaping abyss waiting to devour its prey. The ocean. I was leaving the city behind, and I could not return.
Curiously, at that moment, my mind begins to wander. I thought not of the danger I was in, but of the land beneath the waves, the land that was once above. Of the innumerable cars and taxis that had sank and made the streets their watery grave. Of the shops and offices that were built close to the ground, the ones that had stood no chance against the forces of nature. And of the bodies, the thousands that had not left all that time ago; the brave souls that decided to stick it out, to face the sea where they stood, to never abandon their ships. They had been the lucky ones, truly, the ones that never had to see what their planet would become. There are none left.
A torrent of brackish water slams my head and I snap back to the present. Each flash of lighting makes light of the troubles I now face. My skull is pounding with the clamour of raging surf, my bones chilled to the very core.
In my stupor I do not see the swell forming behind me. While I am deep in thought the water has put a surge into action. The swell strikes me from behind, upturning my vessel, destroying my sail, launching me and my bag into the water. My bag sinks slowly. The shock wears off after a few moments, and I resurface.
I am floating out in the raging seas amidst the sudden storm. The constant deluge of spray forces my eyelids shut. Nothing matters anymore. Inches away from death, my books seem nothing more than insignificant commodities. Ink printed upon pages, nothing more. Anger.
I realize, as I struggle to take in another breath, that this is the first time I have left the city. I have never been here in my life.
A reprieve from the waves. I open my eyes.
An island, a mile away. Lightning is the only illumination, each flash revealing my salvation. Relief washes over me, but I am not safe yet. The sea is not happy with my discovery, and she is determined to make me her own.
I summon every morsel of energy left in my frail body. My head pounds, my ears ring. My fingers, numb and frozen, my vision blurred. Every movement I make is torture. With every stroke forward, I am pushed two strokes back. I swallow more water. My lungs struggle. I am nothing more than a plaything to these waves. With each passing second, it is harder to stay above the surface. My grip is weakening. I slip below the waves. I close my eyes.
Books cannot save me now.
Something grabs my wrist. A hand. I am pulled above the waves, and with a heave, I am hauled aboard a boat. I am still alive.
I fall upon the floor of the aluminum boat in a crumpled heat. Seawater surges from my throat. My lungs rejoice. I am shaking. My skin is white. My head is throbbing. But I am alive.
Concentrating on the presence, my eyes struggle to focus, but the outline of a man is clear. The rain has ceased. Still, the man says nothing.
Turning the engine with steady movements of his arm, the man pilots the boat towards the island. His clothes are soaked, and water drops from his matted hair onto his pointed face. He stares at the island. I look away.
The island grows steadily larger as we approach, and I realize that it is, in fact, not an island at all. What I thought was a lone pile of rocks turns out to be a peninsula that juts into the ocean. The shore is covered in stones and sediment, and evergreens appear sporadically across the soil. In the distance, the mainland sweeps across the horizon, and there are no buildings or signs of life in sight. I see now a dock; it is there we are heading. Dawn is approaching.
Minutes stretch into hours as we approach the pier. My companion climbs out of the boat and ties a rope securely to a pillar covered in algae. He reaches out his hand towards me in a gesture I do not recognize. I make my way out of the boat.
I hear strange noises emanating from the forest. They remind me of the gulls and pigeons that once inhabited the city. But these sounds are different. They cut through the air effortlessly, clear and precise. The first birds of the day are stirring.
Standing together on the pier, the man turns to look at me. For the first time I am granted a clear view of his deep blue eyes. They are striking. But I do not react. I am frozen.
His words ring out in the silence. “Who are you?”
My mind races. I open my mouth, but nothing escapes. I struggle to find a response. Predetermined retorts race through my mind, statements uttered by characters in distant worlds. Statements that do not belong to me. I am completely vulnerable.
He repeats his question. “Who are you?”
Back in my apartment in the city, my books have not moved. Their pages remain just as I left them – waiting in anticipation to be read. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer sits on a tattered plaid cushion that lies on the floor. To Kill a Mockingbird has not moved from its seat on the ivory-coated table. The Catcher in the Rye , from his position on a dysfunctional oven, turns from no one. Pride and Prejudice is still on the floor. It stares at nothing. I will never see my books again.
The man’s words repeat themselves in my head. I whisper, “Who am I?”
To the east, dawn is near. The black sky, slowly, is replaced with streaks of burgundy and crimson. Shadows begin to form where the light cannot reach, but as the day wears on they, too, will bathe in light.
“What’s your name?” asks the man. “You have a name, don’t you?”
“My name.”
A harsh wind blows across the pier. I realize that I am dressed only in a thin parka and ragged jeans. My teeth chatter. A look of concern spreads across the man’s face. Whether it is from my state or my lack of response, I do not know.
He speaks again. “Come on, now. How can I get to know you if you don’t tell me your name?”
Now the first signs of morning have arrived. The edge of the sun is clearly seen over the pointed trees of the mainland. The sky erupts into glorious shades of red and orange. The forest is alive with the songs of birds and stirring wildlife. Creatures, hidden in their burrows throughout the night, depart the safety of their homes to see another day.
“We have to communicate to make it out here,” the man says, crossing his arms. “Don’t you want to work with me?”
The man is confused by my hesitation, but I relax and enjoy the glory of the morning. My mouth forms a smile.
“I’d like that.”
Now the sun has finally begun to rise over the horizon. The light that abandoned me all that time ago has returned. Miles away, in the city, shadows dance between ruins of skyscrapers. Bricks and mortar are lit up as the light returns to power, and shattered panes of glass, now illuminated, reflect. The sky is cloudless, and the air is thick with blots of rose and brilliant gold.
The city had been cooling fast; the wind was from the southeast last night. The final rays of sunlight had disappeared, given way to the suffocating darkness of night. The stars were not out last night. But the past is gone. I have left the city behind.
I take a deep breath. I follow the man up a dirt path, off the pier, away from the ocean, towards the mainland. We walk in silence, sharing everything we know.
It is a new day.