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.

Pack A Smokes

 

part 1 of my fictional saga

I’m not a smoker. Up until today I’ve never even smoked a cigarette once in my life and I never planned on it. But something strange happens to you when everyone and everything around you is destroyed. It’s a very unsettling feeling when you don’t know if anyone beside yourself is still alive.

It wasn’t that great. The cigarette that is. But I’ll probably smoke another one. I found this pack of smokes clutched in the hands of a young man lying face down on Shattuck Ave. He was good looking too, probably my age. I may have even bumped into him once or twice before. At least now he won’t suffer from some slow and painful death like cancer. Perhaps this was the best thing that could have happened to him. At least it was painless – I hope.

I see why people smoke now. It’s something to do, a way to release all of the nervous tension that can easily build up when you’re in a circumstance like mine. And the nicotine rush is pretty good too – although I know if I keep it up I’ll just have to smoke more and more to get the same feeling. I’m not intending on becoming a smoker on a long-term basis, but I’m sure that’s what every smoker has said in the beginning. “I’ve got it under control.”

But don’t judge me based on the fact that I stole a pack of smokes off of a dead guy and am starting a ‘bad’ and potentially deadly habit. If you were in my shoes I can guarantee you that you would be doing exactly what I’m doing.

I’m not really sure where to go from here.

My apartment has been completely destroyed. There’s only a pile of rubble lying where it used to stand. Thank God I got out in time.

I may stop back by there later in hopes to recover some of the earthquake supplies that I had stashed throughout the house. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find anything, but it’s worth a shot.

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.