Day 2: The Last Book in the Satchel
I own a 1930s Remington typewriter that I received as a gift in 2018. Over the past school year, I was extremely bored and frustrated because of my online classes, so my fingers hammered away on the typewriter, cranking out three short, dystopian stories (vignettes?) that I thought were very interesting — interesting in what I wrote and interesting in how I much I enjoyed typing and reading the words stamped on the paper.
Chapter 1: Stained Earth
The red-blood, blinding sun stained the earth, the plants burnt and the people covered with pus-filled sores that exploded when ten minutes of the twenty four daylight hours mercilessly shined onto them. They scurried like rats into the dark, bringing back the tribal days where the blood-stained cavemen returned from their hunting of animals. In this case, they hunted each other, laughing as the axe split their enemies but cried and begged for mercy as the stronger ripped their limbs apart for tonight’s dinner. Don’t misunderstand this as their way to survive and eat, oh no, this was entertainment to them, raw, pleasurable fun to watch their fellow men twitch and tremble in their own creation. And don’t think that this was directly caused by the sun — no, this Human Nature was waiting, sleeping, in a cradle for centuries, and the new sun rocked that cradle too far and revealed the tribal past that we worked so hard to overcome.
Chapter 2: Screaming Kettle
The blood boiled, the kettle screaming as the men mercilessly tended the fire with the remains of what once was the largest, oldest tree in the world, but with the ashy, dusty snow around them, the only comfort and necessity in this world was not food or ammo or fertile women but a simple symbol of civilization; this is why the men were her, to drink tea instead of water, before they got rid of the last people on earth -themselves- as they wanted to experience a new place, a place of everlasting pain, because pain was the only way they knew they were real.
Chapter 3: Chance Lost
The sirens called, their songs bringing me to the edge of the building, luring me to the comforting void. I peered down, watching the city’s inhabitants go on with their lives with enough hidden fury to fuel the murders of mistresses. My mind scrambled, desperately seeking any happy moments that drew me away from the cold heart of reality. But those plentiful memories only convinced me further that despite having a life of pleasure and smiles, I still could not live life the way I wanted to, the life free from thinking about my miseries. I felt the wind whisper “jump… Jump!” But I saw this black bird, in a mechanical, pitiless city, with injured wings and a beakful of worms, struggling to fly to its nest. I saw the chirping chicks, yelling for their food. And suddenly this image, this image of perseverance and determination to survive knocked me to the ground, releasing dams of tears — not of sorrow, but of joy — of how thankful I am to live. But the wind launched my shoulders forward and I tipped over. What a smiling, crying face the concrete must have seen.
You close the book, and, peering through the fog that blanketed your road, you throw the book away.
I loved writing these little stories, I’m not entirely sure why. But I guess I don’t have to find the reasons to explain why. And no, I’m not utterly depressed (and I think that reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy during my sophomore year had too much of an impact lol)