Post by "Unfettered" on Sept 23, 2012 23:19:24 GMT -8
The following is just something I made for my English 104 class. The writing limitation is 10 pages and/or 3000 word cap, double-spaced, Times New Roman, font size 12. Finished relatively last minute, this piece made itself out to be 7 pages long and finished at 1,480 words. This was the most unedited out of all of the ones I made and is really terrible for an entirely different reason aside from potential REALLY BAD writing design aside from being terribly cheesy. Like all the others, this is without peer review and so is relatively raw. Regardless, it was fun, and sharing seemed like a good idea to get more potential feedback on personal self-improvement and tips and other techniques used to write.
There are three things to know about Richard Stock: 1) That he survived the apocalypse; 2) he only spoke five words out of turn; 3) that he was unmistakably, unabashedly, and unforgivably British. A year passed since the nations had the surprisingly climatic finale of World War III, and everyone was generally disappointed with the turnout. Death jumped around gleefully and Mother Nature had crept on in like the terribly invasive mother-in-law. Mother-in-law who risked you being mauled to death by some escaped lion.
The apocalypse wasn’t nearly as bad as everyone had pictured it would be. There wasn’t much in the way of fallout, the heat wasn’t so bad if you had shelter by afternoon, and some places still had running water. Primary concerns that Richard dealt with were the general lawlessness that had broken out in the ruins of Long Beach, which by comparison to a year ago wasn’t necessarily a bad change. Making his way over a small mountain of a collapsed apartment, Mr. Stock made his way to his usual resting place at the still-standing Biltmore Hotel’s fourth level, where the subtle glow of a campfire nearly eluded him. Mr. Stock unlocked the door to room 413 and peered on inside, revealing the twenty-four year old’s rather boyish face in the light of the flame.
Jaunty, narrow chin, with long, disheveled blond hair tied into a pony-tail, he stared at the thankfully expected occupant named Marina. A thin woman in her mid-twenties with long, black hair, cameo pants, a worn aviator jacket, and two black shirts greeted him. With her long, defined features, Marina’s thin smile stretched weakly across her face before standing up to tower over him by a good foot. Mr. Stock frowned at this typical greeting, pausing for a moment before putting down his backpack and sliding out of his dusty poncho, revealing his own thin build, encapsulated in a roughly maintained white button-down, black tie, and a notched lapel jacket complete with a vent. They stared at each other for a moment, appraisingly. They hugged. It was very touching.
“You’re not dead,” she stated.
“Yes.”
Mr. Stock broke away first for some air in the boarded up room, his permanent grimace judging everything in there. Food wrappers, a trash can with its contents compacted, a bed that seemed almost flea free. A tea kettle without a cozy. An abomination, in other words. He distracted himself back to his backpack, pulling out a variety of scavenged foodstuffs, before stashing them under the bed with a slide of his foot. Meanwhile, Marina tended to the kettle which had begun to scream bloody murder and got out their customary tea mugs. Black tea and ramen was on the menu.
For the 113th time, Mr. Stock blanched at the lack of milk out of habit, suffering his tea in general silence, staring at the fire in relative silence. Marina seemed to follow suit, but wore a more depressed look, her ramen untouched. She leaned back into the base of the bed, hugging her knees to herself. She ejaculated an exasperated sigh.
“Catalina sounds nice,” she forced.
“Unreasonably dangerous,” was the staccato reply.
“Long Beach isn’t too far,” she pressed.
“Gummed with debris.”
“HOW WAS YOUR DAY!?” desperation filtering through.
“Occuring,” having never looked up for a moment.
“GAH,” her hands flying up, knocking over the ramen. Boiling water and noodles splashed onto Mr. Stock’s pant leg. The Englishmen stopped mid-chew, staring in absolute silence as his leg burned underneath the legging, Marina staring over in horror, her body half-twisted over.
“OhmyGodI’msosorry,” she reached over.
“Don’t.”
“Please, I’m so sorry---” her hand about to clamp down onto his ankle. The man hissed quietly to himself without even moving a cheek muscle, recoiling inwardly. He handed her his cup with the plastic fork still stabbed into it, ignoring his ankle. Her hand filled, Marina looked down at the food in surprise. Richard barely even moved his lips.
“Eat.”
He stood up, walking over to the side of the bed, away from her still confused gaze. Peering over his shoulder, he only faced her again when he heard the slurping noises resume. Still turned away, he unabashedly began to undo his belt and pulled down his pants, tossing them in the “dirty” corner to wash in the morning. They both stared at the reddened leg. A laugh erupted from Marina, prompting an accusatory stare from Mr. Stock. She stared right on back as the last noodle slid into her mouth hole and became in her.
“Terrible.”
Mr. Stock could only half-conceal his actual smile. Marina’s eyes narrowed, bating at him with a sudden air of demure, objectifying him.
They sexed. It was terribly explicit.
It was alright.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Footsteps.
Mr. Stock woke shirtless, alone, and barely decent for public viewing. The fire was put out, prompting him to sit up abruptly, pulling the sheets up to socially acceptable levels about him. Marina was sitting in her underwear in the corner, blending in with the room’s drab hues, whittling away at a stick. She stared up at him. Then she stared up at him as he cast her a half-smile before re-attaching themselves to the door. Years’ worth of silence wilted over them as the whispering grew louder, echoing through the halls.
“C’mon, no one’s gotta be this stupid,” was the first voice, husky and deep.
“I swear, there was smoke stacks! I’ve been watching this place for days now, so somebody’s gotta be living here!” shrilled the second voice. Sudden thoughts of Aladdin’s Iago flashed across Mr. Stock’s mind.
Immediately, the Englishmen snuck into his pants and was just belting himself up when the head of an axe let itself in through the door. A call from outside gnarled its way in.
“Hey! Hello! Hey! Hello! Saw you from the outside… anyone inside care to share? Hey? Hello!” screeched Iago. Mr. Stock looked over to Marina, who had shoved one of her hands into the small trashcan, just as the door flew off its hinges, taking the axe comfortably seated in it. One large, emaciated looking man shambled in as the screechy, who had a more gangly neck and a fouler odor let himself lean in on the doorway. This man scrutinized the both of them, letting his eyes rest on Marina.
“Well… hello, lubbers.”
Mr. Stock felt himself die a little inside. There was nothing at hand to defend themselves with. Smalls was already wrenching out the firemen’s axe from the door with little ease, his goopy muscles straining from malnourishment. Marina sat with her legs at her sides, leaning back, hand reaching desperately inside as the gangle-necked man strode on over with a superfluous and unearned air of authority in this situation as his larger compatriot muscled his way in, breathing threateningly.
“It’s hell on earth these days,” the parrot squawked, “so it’s important that every fellow man share everything.”
He stared at the half-naked woman with an obvious lewdness.
“And I do mean everyth---”
Marina aimed at the crotch of the man with an obvious gun.
Time froze. Debris flew up from the trashcan that the gun was sleeping in. The big man gawked, staring at the gun and then at the unarmed, small Englishmen.
“DOUG, I CAN GET HIM, DON’T TOUCH DOUG---“
“YOU IDIOT, SHE HAS A GUN AIMED AT MY---“
“PROTECT THE TOT---“
Mr. Stock lost his hand. Doug lost his cajones.
Marina lost two bullets.
Smalls looked up at Mr. Stock, axe dropped, bullet wound in the side of his rotund waistline. He grimaced, falling back onto his derriere, shuddering over his wound. Mr. Stock looked over at Marina, at his hand, and then hefted up the axe onto his shoulder to swing. He glared at the large, dying man, waiting on a last request.
“The world, man,” Smalls blubbered, “the world so cray-cray---”
“NOT HOW WE ENGLISH,” the Englishman snapped.
The axe, that is.
Into the man’s neck.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two days passed. So had the two intruders. Mr. Stock had insisted on giving them both a hand for their natural survival instincts, but his inventory had plummeted so he settled for burying them. Mrs. Stock busied herself with packing up their things as the two made plans for the beaches. There was no ring or fancy paperwork to consummate the wedding, but they were as real as the world they lived in. A peck on the cheek, a few more weeks’ worth of supplies, the couple went forward in search of their new home, hand-in-hand. Humanity had survived and would make do, plan and persevere. Because, post-apocalypse or no, they had a simple plan.
ReStock the world. One generation at a time.
