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Once a Week - Ended October 10

OK, the theme this time is Apocalypse.  I've finished my piece already, but it's not due until October 10.

“...And although little is known of this group, it is evident that they've been around much longer than originally thought even though they've only revealed themselves in the last month.  Kerry, on to you.â€
 
Is anyone doing it this week? It's so quiet.

Anyway, I plan to get my story in within the next couple of days. I'm not so good with the stories so hopefully I can get some good critique. :)
 
It's pretty late, but I got it done. I wrote the first half a week ago and just finished the second half tonight. I kind of had to rush it so it didn't turn out nearly as good as I thought, but at least it's done. It could've turned out a lot better, but I kind of like it. In fact it's one of the only short stories I've ever written. Well, here ya go:
Pandemic. The very word strikes fear into people’s hearts. Over the years, since humans have been created, countless outbreaks have occurred. Who could forget the bubonic plague that struck Europe in the 14th century? Or what about the ever famous Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918? Yeah, those and many others killed millions of people. Strange, isn’t it, to think that our entire life can be ended by something so small we can’t even see it.

We should’ve seen the signs. They were there, clear as crystal for all to see. Advanced medical technologies can only do so much when there are over seven billion people on this planet, you know. And when nearly half of that population lives on less than two dollars a day, something’s bound to break loose.

It’s been three years since the pandemic struck. To this day we can’t find out how it started exactly. Some say terrorism is to blame. After all, I guess some people might get a little mad when you just step into your property and blow up your house. And it’s not like it requires a large budget. Just infect a few people, get on a plane and off you go.

Others say that it was completely natural. A new strain, evolving and becoming unaffected by even our best vaccines. Amazing, how this little virus can change so much and nearly drive a species to extinction.

It’s generally agreed that the infections were first becoming noticed in Paris, located in the once beautiful France. At first, it was nothing unusual, just a few patients with a strange new illness. But soon, it became a bit more than that. Doctors were noticing that people infected with Marmottan’s disease, named after the hospital in which the first few patients were held, were dying within a few days of being diagnosed. They had violent convulsions similar to seizures, and eventually died of heart failure. Each day, more and more patients were being admitted into Paris hospitals. And shortly after the mysterious new illness was named, it began to spread.

By September 2016, only two weeks after one hundred in France were pronounced dead from the disease, people from all reaches of the world were being killed. New York began to notice signs of the virus creeping in. Los Angeles, Tokyo and Shanghai were getting it, too. It was shortly realized that this was an infection like mankind had never seen before, and if nothing was done soon, it would be too late.

Of course, that never stopped the politicians from spending millions on issues deemed more important by them, such as the next president of the United States or the Olympics. No, it’ll fade, they said, similar to how the Avian Flu disappeared from newspapers and TV stations. It was a hit and miss, they lied. Even when confronted with alarming data showing that billions could be killed in as little as two years, they shrugged it off and hid it from the world, not wanting to spend their precious cash trying to find a cure.

Even as soon as February 2017 it was too late. Around one million had been killed by Marmottan’s. Most of these deaths were in Europe. Entire cities were being quarantined. Paris was abandoned and became a ghost town. Fires and looting broke out in London and Berlin, with police not being able to contain the crime. Millions flocked to North America, crowding cities and leaving many homeless. An already unstable economy became a downward spiral in which it would never recover. It was clear to everyone that…well, we were screwed.

Even so, that doesn’t mean we didn’t try. Scientists quickly came out with cure after cure, although even the best of their efforts couldn’t delay the death for more than a week. You see, they found out that this tiny little virus could infect the human body for weeks and show no symptoms, and then, out of nowhere, BAM! You’re lying on the ground in a pool of your own blood. And with even the top disease experts being confounded by this problem, they tried everything they could to save at least a few. 

As the days went on, and the death toll kept rising, humanity finally started to accept its fate. Still, that didn’t stop thousands from trying to flee the impending apocalypse. Thousands fled to small islands such as Easter Island in the Pacific. Of course, many were unaware that the virus was airborne, so ultimately the whole world was infected.



The date I am writing this letter is July 16, 2018. My location is in a small shack located about fifteen kilometers north of the former city of Chatham, Ontario. Right now I am with two others-my brother and my cousin. I am writing this letter to perhaps tell future generations about what has occurred since Marmottan’s first struck. Perhaps this may serve as a warning to future generations about how not to handle a situation.
I am sorry for ending this letter so abruptly, but I feel my life is coming to an end. I, like billions of others, am infected with millions of tiny virus that are destroying my body from the inside out. Even now I struggle to find the strength to finish this letter. Every human has suffered the same fate. That’s one thing we all have in common. We all die. But I wonder…I wonder if anyone will survi
Man, after rereading it, the ending is crap.  :dead: At least it's finished.

(I wonder if me and Guardian will be the only ones doing it this week)

And I think next week's theme should be Nature or something. :P
 
Not bad, Dadevster.  I can definitely tell that you're young, though.  I'm not sure what it is about how it's read, but it has the "wasn't written by an adult" feel.  You're not doing anything wrong, and your grammar was perfect, but it still has that strange feel.  Maybe it's the way the sentences are structured.  I don't know, but it's not really anything you have to worry about.  I remember my first stories sounded like that, but it got better as I got older.

Anyway, on to the story!  It's not a bad storyline, but it's too explain-y.  You're describing what's happened, but you're not describing it.  It doesn't feel like I'm inside the story when I read it.  You don't really seem to describe what everyone feels like, or if the virus left a strange odor behind, or how the families felt, or anything of that nature.  It was almost written like a history book, which may appeal to some people, but it's not something I find attractive.  I think it's much better to involve the reader in the story instead of making them feel like they're watching an overview of the world.  Here's what I saw:

It started in Paris.  I see a map of the country of France, and try to locate in it where Paris is (I have no idea, but I try to guess anyway).  Then, you mention the hospital, so I zoom in to that temporarily.  Then, it's back out and I watch as a wave of color begins to absorb the country and then spread outward, my vision zooming out and rotating the planet with each location's description.  Then, I saw a boat and an island when you mentioned trying to flee to the outcast islands, and it ended with a scene where the writer was swallowed by a lion (comedy central reference...don't ask).

That's all good, and I understand what happened, but I never felt it.  I wasn't actually a part of it.

And I've actually got two themes ready for next week, the main theme and an alternative one (or you can do both, if you want).  I'll describe them after we finish this week's theme.
 
@Guardian: Well the story started off pretty slow, but at the end it picked up. The ending was good and talked to the reader to make it seem more from a realistic perspective and less like telling a story. There could have been a little less dialogue, especially at the beginning since it didn't help draw in the reader to the story, and there were a few grammatical errors (I think you used reformed in the wrong situation. Reform is supposed to mean change, yet it sounded more like regenerating). Overall, good read.

Alright, I was going to edit my story one more time, but I'll post the first version ahead of time.
             The end of the world was near. The disciples knew it. The people around me knew it. And my lord, the one to lead us to the path of eternal life, knew it. I was behind the confession circle of my fellow enlightened as they began to talk about their past sins. I stood in the background watching. The person standing, Lemuel, had just finished his confession and the group cheered as he bent down, kissed the earth, and returned to his place on the floor.  Joses was up next. He waited for acknowledgement from the confessional leader and then broke out of his Indian-style position, uncrossing his legs and unfolding his arms. He stood up. The room was still, the people, the tables, the lights, dimly lit and blinking, all still and waiting apprehensively for Joses to tell his story.

             “I am enlightened now…” Joses began to say. The group responded in a nodding notion. Some responded in words of approval, which blended together in a similar monotonous chant. He loosened the red scarf around his neck and continued his speech.

             “I know this because I do not take drugs like I used to. I do not drink or commit sins anymore. I will become perfect. My mother died a year ago and I was lost until I found this group. I did not realize how corrupted my inner being was when I joined. But now I know that my inner being was corrupted even before my mother’s death. I was unenlightened, and now I know that I do not want to die unenlightened like my mother.”

             The group cheered him as he finished his speech and returned to his Indian-style sitting position on the floor. He was inspiring. The group watched him for a few seconds waiting for him to conclude his speech, yet he seemed oblivious to the ending confirmation so they proceeded to the next confessor. He was newly enlightened. He did not understand that he must kiss the earth for nature to give him its blessings, but he had cleansed himself of most of his corruption in the short time he had been there. He would still need coaching. I watched him as he sat obediently and reformed, watching Serah talk about her past. I then left to visit the Garden of Eden.

             The garden was planted in front of the church where confession was held on Wednesdays. It had been designed to perfection. The garden had two plateaus with a walkway in between, leading to the gate that blocked the holy community from the unenlightened. The plateaus held smaller plateaus, rising up like steps, which gave it a cone shape. It was beautiful. Zinnias, the flower god had picked himself, had been planted in batches along the outer edges of the plateaus, with the biggest and most charismatic on top. I stood there. I listened to the sounds of the garden around me and felt the gentle push of the wind, blowing gently against my back. I felt at peace. Then a shrill voice began ringing in my ear.

             “Do you think you are happy, Jacob?” The voice said. I became tense. Suddenly, the noises of nature surrounding me became loud and angry. I placed my hands on my ears and shut my eyes in reaction to it. I tried not to listen.

             “Are you happy, Jacob…?” The voice said, dragging at every word and syllable. I stared ahead at my father’s image. His ethereal being, slowly becoming more visible, stared back. His thin face and long ears, his small mouth and thin cheeks, his gray pupils, soulless and empty, focused directly on my figure.

             “I am happy, father,” I said prudently. I would not let him corrupt my inner being. I would not let him win.

             “Do you believe that? You are worthless and everyone here knows that,” he said brashly.

             “Yes, I believe that. I am enlightened,” I said. I had to hold my guard up or my father would bring me to hell with him. I stood up taller. My eyes met his in a cold stare and he folded his arms in an arrogant manner, smirking.

             “You are not enlightened. You are a fool. The disciples don’t even respect you,” he said. His voice became even more mocking and satirical. “Remember that day they were laughing in the main chamber until you walked in?”

             “They were talking about one of the members that was still corrupted,” I responded.

             “Sure, sure,” He responded. The idea of the disciples mocking me became implanted in my head, gradually transforming into more a reality than an idea. It discomforted me.

             “Please leave, father. I do not wish any harm on you,” I replied.

             “And that is why you killed me?”

             “That was the will of God. I had to do it,” I replied again. My father was the spawn of the devil, so it was directed that I kill him. He refused to leave me alone, even after death.

             The voices of nature were now much more audible. They screeched in my ears violently. I began to bend to my knees and kissed the earth to calm nature. My father’s figure and the voices around me faded as my lips touched the earth. It was peaceful again.

             I kept my lips on the earth for a certain amount of time before removing them and leaving the garden to visit the main chambers. The chambers were to the left of the Garden of Eden, right behind the church where confessions took place. There were five chambers. They looked like the traditional apartments of the unenlightened except with a cross on the door. The main chamber had a gold plated door. I opened it.

             As I entered the main chamber’s living room, also called the holy room, I scanned the room to check if there were any evil souls that I would have to cleanse. There were none. I walked into the holy room and moved toward the center table. The table was surrounded by a bright red crouch on three sides, and a large cross on the other side. The cross was life-sized and positioned perfectly, with a stool to step on in front of it. It was set here so that if God needed me, I would be able to ascend quickly. In the holy room, behind the couch, there was a door and a staircase. The staircase led to the twelve rooms of the disciples, while the door led to my room. The disciples were praying at this hour, so I made sure not to disturb them.

             My room was dark, but silent. The voices were absent in my room, so there was no disturbance. I sat down on my bed. I let out a breath of wind and ran my fingers through my tangled brown hair. My eyes focused in on the boxes. I didn’t see them there before and I couldn’t remember where I had gotten them from. I walked across the room to the boxes that were set under my table and opened one. There were several bottles of green liquids, slightly denser than water, packed tightly in the large boxes. I held the bottle. I tried to remember where I had received it from. I couldn’t. God spoke to me then.

             “Give the bottles,” he said.

             “God, is it you who speaks?” I replied to him. “I defeated my father, the devil, today God. Did you notice?”

             “Give the bottles,” he continued. “To my children.”

             His voice faded. I was disappointed that he did not acknowledge my accomplishment. Yet that was usual, so I should have expected it. He was God. He did not need to include useless words or compliments to have people follow. He was already great. I thought about his orders for a while. “Give the bottles to my children.” What did it mean? It didn’t make sense. Unless he meant my group of the enlightened, the “Children of God”. I called the disciples. They filed in one by one into the small, yet decorated room and gathered along the walls of the room to hear my orders. I felt some tension in my forehead as I saw them all assembled in my room, waiting for me to speak.

             “My friends, God has spoken. He wants you to give these bottles to our enlightened,” I said to them.

             “How did you receive them?” Peter, the first disciple, asked.

             “I do not know. They appeared to me in this room. Perhaps it was god who sent them here.”

             “Are they meant for us to ascend?” John asked.

             “No. The date of ascension is in two months.”

             “Is it possible God has changed the date?”

             “No, my friend. He would not change the date of ascension, and if he did, he would not allow you to know before I.”
My anger began to flourish. My father’s words resonated in my head.

             “The disciples don’t even respect you.”

             I felt my forehead tighten as it pulled the skin to the center and my eyes clamped together as my teeth grinded against each other. My father’s words. His devilish tongue ripping apart my inner being and all I could do was place my hand over my forehead to cover the pain.

             “Are you alright, lord?” Peter asked watching me try to cover my sin.

             “Yes. Please hurry with the task,” I said and they hurried off with the boxes. I couldn’t let them see me corrupted. I couldn’t let them see me controlled by sin. I still felt pain in my head as the voices entered my room, my sanctuary. I bent to the floor and pressed my lips against the floor. It calmed the voices. I began to deconstruct and analyze my thoughts as I walked to my bed. He was not my father. My father was God, and this was the devil. I was perfect. I was not the son of that snake, that devil who haunted me. I was god’s child. I walked exhaustedly, yet more relaxed, to my bed and lay there. The sun was still bright. The orange rays made their way through my window and provided a heavenly square of light covering my bed. I was safe here. I turned over to my side and put my head on top of the cushioned white pillow. It was safe for me to sleep.

             The night accompanied me as I woke. The light was gone. I rose from my bed raising my hands directly before me to find the door. It was dark this night. The moon was dim and hid behind the clouds. I struggled to find the exit and made my way out of the main chambers. The silence this night was haunting. The chambers were all silent and made no sound. I opened the small booth next to the chambers and retrieved a small lamp. I could see the dirt path. I followed it to find my way to the church. The silence followed too. The crickets followed me with their mocking chirps as I came closer to the church. I stumbled. I caught myself midway through the fall and ended up just running headfirst a few steps. I was startled. Not by the possibility of falling, but by what tripped me. It was too soft to be a rock and felt too cold and lifeless. I moved forward, a little faster and did not look back. My lamp caught glimpses of figures, cold and lifeless like the first. I began to jog forward. The voices came relentlessly now. I couldn’t escape the voices, the figures, the evil souls around me. I couldn’t kiss the earth because of the corrupt figures on the floor. I had to run. I almost reached the garden when I saw a figure directly on the path. The lamp provided enough light for me to see it. It was gray and lifeless. I could not grasp what it was due to the thoughts circulating through my head. I could only see its dark gray body and that bright red scarf. I felt sick. I moved off the path and avoided the body to make my way to the garden. The garden was scattered with bodies and figures all around. From here I could see the bodies of the twelve disciples lying there among the rest. They took the bottles too. It was sickening, my haven, my disciples, my followers lying there pale and lifeless. They all lost their light and faded into the darkness of the night. I would have to spend the last two months of the world’s existence alone.

             I looked up at the garden and gazed at the tallest Zinnia through the light of the lamp. It was still there, withered and less bright. It was losing its ability to stand. There was something else wrong with the garden, something that ruined the garden and all the beauty it used to encompass. The other flowers were missing.

Alright, I tried a lot of new things for this story(new perspective, new writing style, etc.), so I'll expect that something may have gone wrong in the process. I'll be more open to critique on this one(which I hope I am on every piece), so feel free to give all your impressions on it. And yeah, I did stray away from the main topic, but I put a few sentences in it to link it to the end of the world.
 
Neverplayd":3hwcr7u0 said:
@Guardian: Well the story started off pretty slow, but at the end it picked up. The ending was good and talked to the reader to make it seem more from a realistic perspective and less like telling a story. There could have been a little less dialogue, especially at the beginning since it didn't help draw in the reader to the story, and there were a few grammatical errors (I think you used reformed in the wrong situation. Reform is supposed to mean change, yet it sounded more like regenerating). Overall, good read.
I was trying to set up the characters at the beginning, which is kind of pointless in a short story.  It's a strange habit I have since my first writing experiences were with a long story.  Grammatical errors are almost always caused by the fact that I write like I speak.  In this case, reform was supposed to be re-form.  It's not a huge problem (to me, at least), but I should start paying more attention to it.


Your story was interesting, as well.  I always like characters who think they're pure when they're really more corrupt than everyone else.  The perspective was good until the second to last paragraph.  You were using I too much, and you usually don't need to after the first sentence.  If you can find ways around using "I", it sounds better and the reader still knows that you're talking about the main character.

The descriptions were a little dull.  When you were describing the church and the flowers, it wasn't pulling me in.  The layout of the church isn't really a necessary aspect (you included descriptions of where he was going and where his room was, which you really don't need), and you should try to make descriptions more descriptive, like...

I stopped to stare at the rising church, and it looked like it was reaching into Heaven.  The building resonated with purity and hope, something so few seemed to accept.  But I was different.  I was here.

That helps the reader feel what the character is feeling.  The way you have it, it's more of a, "This goes here, this goes here, and that goes there," and it isn't as interesting as it could be.

There was one specific thing that bothered me:

Neverplayd":3hwcr7u0 said:
I opened it.

It's not needed, and it looks sort of clumsy.  It's like building a dam in a river.  It just completely threw off the flow that you were creating.  When you said, "I entered," it's sort of implied that he opened the door.  Usually, if it's a normal action, you can assume the reader knows what you mean.  I'm not going to see, "I entered," and think, "Oh, he must have walked through the wall.  SUPER POWERS!!!"

I sounded really mean in that last paragraph. :\

Anyway, I had a little trouble understanding the ending.  It doesn't really explain what happened to either the protagonist or the disciples.  It sounded like you were going for a dramatic ending, but I really didn't connect it to anything.

I hope I was helpful. ^-^  It's alright if you sort of veer away from the theme.  The theme is more of a way to start a flow of ideas, which is what this whole contest is about.
 
Thanks for the critique on the story. Yeah, it was a new writing style I was trying out, short sentences mixed with longer descriptions. I guess I overdid it with the "I opened" and "I stumbled" sentences. I took note to the descriptions critique, and I'll try and fix that up or I'll keep that in mind for the next story.

The ending was actually symbolistic of the group in general. The story was about a cult (which was the reason the group was named "Children of God") and the main character was the cult leader. The garden represented the social standing within the cult, "the most charismatic on top and the rest on bottom". The cult is a totalarianistic group, so they have one person be the central power on top and the rest on the bottom, with a few powers in between to carry the leader's wishes, in this case the disciples. Basically it was a metaphor showing that when the lower flowers or cult members were gone or dead, the whole garden in general or the cult was ruined. Maybe it was a little too dramatic, but I like to end my stories with some sort of symbolism.
 

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