A Bit More Non-Oddworld Fiction
It's an introduction to a story I'm never going to write. Probably a bit heavy on description. Nice post-apocalyptic vibe, though.
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A small beetle scuttled across scuffed dirt, kicking up tiny patches of dust as it moved. It weaved between small stones before finally disappearing into a crack to shelter from the light. Flecks of blistered grey drifted down from corrugated metal walls, rust and lichen beginning to overcome the thin layer of paint. Further along the walls, the paint seemed to fall away completely as one looked at it, until, as one reached the end, the surface was entirely given over to dark red corrosion. Long shadows were cast by the uneven surface as pale autumn sunlight streamed across it, the empty entrance appearing a halo of light compared with the inky blackness at the far end. Nothing but the sound of distant birdsong could be heard.
Large doors, the same decaying metal as the walls, creaked in the breeze. They were weathered, weathered as if they had endured storms that should have destroyed them outright. One was wrenched from its fixture and lay at an angle, embedded in the ground by one corner while the others leant against the door frame. The other door swung slowly on its hinges as the wind picked up. Back inside, the wind was little more than a draught, which stirred the torn edges of an upside-down cardboard box. Its printing was faint and unreadable. On top of it lay a meagre collection of possessions; an empty cigarette packet, a box of cheap matches and a labelless beer bottle. All were patterned with grey smears and dirty fingerprints. Away from it, in the very corner of the cramped space, a shapeless bin bag was squashed against the walls, the objects inside soft but unidentifiable, with the opening drawn up with thick cord.
Sprawled over the rustling mass was a man, his eyes half-closed in his semiconscious state. He had a musty smell, a smell of distant times forgotten, as if he had somehow accumulated the scent of everywhere he had been. Straggly brown hair draped down over his blank, unshaven face, thinning to greasy clumps over his grubby green jacket. Dirt seemed to envelop him, dried mud coating his heavy boots and his greying t-shirt covered in dust. Only his jeans seemed to be new, but already these were collecting grime along the bottom, spots of mud and other filth tracking up the sides. In his limp, slumping body, the man's eyes lazily followed a single large cockroach that stumbled along his arm and across his fingers, its ponderous movements never seeming to display any intention of leaving. The man watched it for some time. Minutes passed. Silently, he stood up, resting one hand firmly against the wall as he limped slowly to the empty opening, his eyes never leaving the cockroach as he stumbled across. Reaching the doors, he squatted down, pulled the cockroach from his arm and placed it on the gravel outside. He prodded it gently, then fell back into a more comfortable sitting position and watched it scuttle away.
He remained there long after the bug had disappeared under the layer of rubble, staring blankly at the hole it had made in the soil.
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Last edited by MeechMunchie; 12-02-2010 at 12:29 PM..
: Grammar is important!
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