"My Song"

Hey guys,
Steve here.
This is sad, I’m warning you. I wrote it as a warm-up for the creative writing class I am in at school. Normally I don’t even save these journals, but I am this time because it’s one of the writings I’m particularly proud of. I left the prompt in here so you could know where this came from.
·         Write about something ugly — war, fear, hate, or cruelty–but find the beauty (silver lining) in it.
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It was dark.
        The power had long since been knocked out, plunging this lonely house and the broken street on which it barely clung to life into complete darkness. Even the Sun had retreated from view as though it too was afraid to show its beautiful face in a land so completely consumed by such unimaginable destruction.
        Yet the plains streaked overhead – wining, roaring, depositing their hate-filled payloads on our dead city. I did not know why. We had long since fallen from our knees. We were face up on the ground, staring lifelessly at the starlit sky, unable to see even the slightest flicker of brightness – and wasn’t that their goal? Didn’t they aim to block out all the light? If so, they did it already by casting the shadows of their flying devils upon us, and destroying the foundations of who we were with thunderous booms and the hellish orange glow that followed – no. It was clear to all of us – including those whose lives were lost as everything they ever stood for was pulverized before their eyes – that those people wanted us all gone, entirely.
        Yet somehow, by some cruelly ironic miracle I could not name, through all of this, I laid protectively atop my three-year-old sister in what used to be my parents’ bathtub. And in this moment, I felt we were the only two living things left on the planet – the last two flickering pulses of light in a god awful sea of lifelessness.
As I laid there, plaster raining down upon me with every intensifying trimmer, I prayed  to whatever inexplicably cruel thing was listening. By God, if I wasn’t gonna survive this, couldn’t she at least? I wanted a bright future for her. I wanted all this destruction to be a thing of her past; never forgotten but never repeated. She was way too young to be forced into our bitter ways.
I had already excepted the inevitability of death’s staccato steps eventually bringing it to my house, where it would smash the entire structure and rip us out with vicious claws and crush us in its ravenous jaws. And yet as I laid there, holding and singing to my sister who seemed, at least for the moment blissfully unaware of the danger around us, I felt a spark of triumph light within me. Perhaps the war had taken away almost everything I know. Perhaps my parents were gone – maybe dead, maybe not, but certainly never to be seen again. However, this bond I shared with this tiny child – so insignificant in the grand scheme of things and so fragile, was the one thing the war could never rip from me. If anything, the war had only made it stronger.
        There was a massive crash. It was louder than any that had occurred thus far. It shook the house so violently, that I felt as though someone had picked us up, and slammed us down. A gasp escaped my sister’s lips, as the fearful tears began to fall from her eyes, dripping down her face and collecting in a pool behind her head. “Sam? I’m scared…” She murmured against my chest. I pulled her closer to me. Her tears soaked through my shirt, burning their way into my heart like acid.
“Please don’t let them hurt me, please?” She sobbed, desperation rising in her voice. “It’s my turn,” I thought to myself, the inevitability crashing into me like the constant shock waves. My song was dead now, for I had no more words to sing. Instead, the melodious bells of death rang in its place, louder than ever before. They were coming. Even my 3-year-old sister new that.
“It’s gonna get us, Sam. Daddy said we should run away if it tried to get us! What are you gonna-” She was practically screaming now, her body shaking against my chest.
“It’s okay, baby. I promise. Let it take you,” I whispered to her, stroking her hair. I absolutely despised myself for saying these words to her, because it meant I had failed her, myself, and my parents, and the rest of the world in the worst way imaginable.
“But I’m scared…” she protested.
There was a horrible whistle, as though from the gates of hell themselves. I squeezed my sister even tighter, folding my arms around her head protectively. And as the monster punched into our little haven of safety, I made my last dying promise. “Shhh. Don’t be. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. We’ll go together. It can never hurt us then.”
Thanks for reading,
type you later,
Steve.

Unearth, my first attempt at a larger scale short story

Hey guys,

Steve here.

This semester, I joined a creative writing class. My first assignment was to write a story about anything of my choosing, as long as it was at least 1000 words and had 3 or more characters. The following is my result. It’s just over 3600 words. I apologize for coming back after all this time with such a long post. Anyway, enjoy; and feel free to leave feedback.

Unearth

Early on the morning of reentry, the service droid assigned to maintenance of the habitation decks on board the Curious Beast stood in the sleeping quarters of the meager scouting party assigned to the ship. The droid stood no more than 4 feet tall, but despite his short stature, his features were made with intricate design – from the slight dimple on the right side of his face, to the slightly pointed nose, currently scrunched in exasperation.

The ball-shaped lenses that served for his eyes rested in their unnaturally rounded sockets above his high cheek bones, currently illuminated with a red glow, to perpetuate his glare. His immaculately groomed eyebrows were raised above them to complete the look. His ears were abnormally large, jutting out from the sides of his head like mini radar dishes; a testament to the fact that even robot design artists were still just human.

Read the full story

Just In Case You Were Wondering… 70 Is the Age to Be

Hey guys,
Steve here.
Speech class has become a place where I take the prompts I’m given, and attempt to create entertaining pieces of work out of them. And while the answers to the question, “If you could be any age for the rest of your life, what would it be?” given to my class ranged from 3 to 35, I chose… 70.
When I brought this up, people told me they thought 65 was better. However, 67 is basically retirement age here in the United States. So by the time I turned 70, I’d have worked all the years I was expected to, and then, well, we’d get to the points I make in this speech. Anyways, have this rather twisted, overly optimistic outlook on old man life.

        As children, we wish to be adults, because we want to be able to do
all the things our parents can and don’t like being told what to do.
As young to mid age adults, people want to be children again because
they’ve quickly learned how stressful life can be. As older adults,
people want to be at retirement age, because who likes work? If I had
to choose, the age I would be for the rest of my life would be 70, —
because of the respect I’d get, the discounts, and not having to work!
        As a 70 year old, you get the senior discount at most places. Man,
wouldn’t it be nice to go out to eat, and get to pay the least amount
out of everyone because you’re more experienced at life? There’s no
reason for it besides how old you are. And because you’ve already
worked hard for years of your life, you don’t have to compensate it
further.
        Secondly, I wouldn’t have to work. Why, you ask? Well, because I
already did for 50 years. I spent 50 years saving up all this money so
I could blow it as an old guy. Man, that would be nice, you know, to
get to do what you want, when you want, and not stress about going,
to, work.
        And finally, respect. You see, unlike the 20 somethings fresh out of
highschool or college who don’t have a job, I wouldn’t be frowned upon
and told to get my lazy butt out the door; no, I’d still be respected
because I’m old. Man, I could sit there all day and eat nachos if I
wanted to, and still have all those youngsters trembling at the side
of my huge leather recliner with their “Yes sir” and “What can I do
for you, Mister?” Bro. I’m telling you, that’d be nice. I know, I’d
have to go through decades of constant work prior to it, — that’s how
the old folks earn their respect. But it would be worth it, if I
stayed that age forever, — never worrying about inferiors looking
down on me.
        So as you can clearly see, 70 is the age to be, at least for me. It
may not be all I crack it up to be, but hey. If things go south, I can
just yell at the youngsters to fix me a fresh plate of nachos. That’s
it for my speech today, I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for listening.

Yeah. I’m sure life’s not like that when you’re 70, but who cares. I was bored and in the mood to joke.
Thanks for reading,
type you later,
Steve.