Deadground

part 2 of my fictional saga

It didn’t take too long for the rains to come. The weatherman has been promising showers all week. Of course they would come now. Why couldn’t this tragedy happen during the summertime? What are the odds of the shit hitting the fan now? Pretty good I guess.

My cigarettes got soaked. It’s not a big deal. They’re no good for me anyway. They’re probably the last thing that I need right now.

As soon as the rains came I ran to seek shelter. It’s not as easy as you might think. I’m still looking. I’ve tried getting into house after house around town, but the houses that haven’t been completely destroyed are locked solid. I’m probably going to have to break into one of these houses. I’m just a little nervous to do that. But hey, I’ve got to survive right? And considering the circumstances I think that breaking and entering is a completely okay thing to do, right?

While trying to find some reliable cover from the rain I walked by a playground. It was probably the most disturbing thing that I’ve ever seen – so many dead children. Kids dead on the slide, slumped over swings, on the see saw and in the sandbox. One of the teachers lay dead on the ground with a whistle in her mouth.

I took the whistle. I don’t know why, but I think that there’s a possibility it could come in handy.

I’ve got to get out of this rain.

Bloggers Block

  I’m not sure why I have such a strong desire to write, but I do. Perhaps it’s something that is passed along genetically, which could explain things, as my Mother is a writer.

But I suppose that the reason why I want to write isn’t really all that important. Perhaps it’s enough simply to know that I want to write.

But about what?

There are many things to write and rant about, but I feel like I wish that I had an interesting fictional story to tell. Which is slightly odd considering the fact that I do not enjoy reading fiction myself. Every now and then there will be a fiction book that strikes me, but usually the books that hold my attention are non-fiction. I tend to read mostly books of a non-dualistic or spiritual nature. Presently I’m trying to venture out a bit by starting to read up on finances and real estate.

Yet despite my preference for non-fiction I feel compelled to write a made-up story. I think. Or maybe that’s just me misinterpreting my feelings.

All I know for sure is that I want to write. I want what I say to be interesting – at least to myself, but hopefully to others as well.

I’ve thought about a few ideas for possible stories to write. One idea that I’ve been playing around with is a world in which when people are born their parents have to choose the way that their kid will eventually die. This world would have some sort of a quota that needs to be met for every kind of death possible. Your social status and level – or lack – of wealth would depend on your available selection of different deaths. The rich would most likely be able to choose the least painful deaths where as the poor would be stuck with things like drowning, freezing to death, etc.

I like this idea, but that’s really as far as I’ve come with it. I don’t know where to take it from here.

How do writers do it? I suppose that it’s different for different people, as everything seems to be. I have heard some writer’s claim that they don’t write their story, rather it unfolds by itself. They don’t necessarily know entirely what will happen, but they write and write and eventually they find out themselves.

I guess that’s sort of like the idea of freestyle, unedited writing. Supposedly by writing your thoughts as you think them, without any sort of editing whatsoever, great ideas will emerge.

Interesting.

Maybe I should give it a shot.