Entry 2

So I've decided upon writing the story in the past tense. I had been worried about this, as I need practice writing in present tense, and the fact that there are a lot of flashback sequences in the story. All past tense just ended up sounding better overall. Hopefully the main part of the storyline will become obvious over time, if it hasn't by the end of this Entry.

          Even in rural Pennsylvania, the silence out there was eery. The cataclysm acted too quickly for anyone to respond. I think the silence was the first thing that had truly put me off. In the early days, the news would show screaming, panic, and mass hysteria. Refugees and security forces had their misguided clashes. The panic didn't last long, once people realized that their fighting wasn't accomplishing anything, and survival instincts started to kick in.

I hadn't put much thought into what was happening at the time. My inner balance of fear and confusion resulted in complete disillusionment. I remember only watching the television and constantly refreshing my web browser to the point where what little new or relevant information I could obtain wouldn't even register in my mind. It was when my desire to truly see what was happening was when apathy turned action, and I decided to go home. I just remembered wanting to feel familiarity, to really know where I was, even if it was just to remind me of what Earth was like.

I guess anyone who wanted to leave the city had already made their way out by the time I'd filled my backpack with spare clothes and non-perishables. The stench of unchecked waste, death, and burning wreckage was oppressive, but easily acclimated to within a few days. It didn't take long to realize walking was the only way of getting around the city. Refugees gave into frustration and lack of fuel by abandoning their automobiles wherever they could last care about them.

Walking through Manhattan, I would occasionally come across an emaciated stray animal or two, but beyond that there were no signs of life. Corpses lay bloated in the opressive August heat.  Some were trampled, a few were victims of violence, with most of the dead obviously being victims of the plague. Trekking through the remains of downtown Manhattan, I marveled at how still the city truly was. If I looked up, ignoring the street-level wreckage and destruction, the lifeless city gave me the impression that I was an archeologist happening upon a preserved ancient city. It was the feeling of being truly and completely alone. No predators, no prey, no gods, no masters. I felt no fear or worry. Forgive the cliche reference, but it was the end of the world, and I felt fine.

Ocassionally, I'd run across bare streets or abandoned National Guard checkpoints. These usually signified safety zones, but whatever zone hadn't been abandoned had been wiped out by the plague. Rummaging through skyscrapers, I remember when the gravity of the situation truly hit me. While methodically raiding vending machines and sleeping on couches a thousand times more comfortable than any bed I had ever owned, I had made my way onto an office floor. Due to habit, when I closed my eyes, my mind had created an aural mirage of whirring hard drives, ringing phones, and mumbled conversation. Boxy old computer monitors flickered to life. Stacks of paper abruptly spilled out onto the floor.  Boring small talk turning into plans for the weekend that would never be met. When I opened my eyes, I saw nothing but a silent, sterile room.

My face went warm. My eyes burned. I could feel my feet giving out as I stumbled backwards into the glass window of an abandoned office. I slid down and hugged my knees. What faux-masculine facade I had held onto so dearly all of my life gave way as I could feel the tears.

"I need to go home." I don't know how many times I said it out loud, but I said it until it could get me to stand up and go back to where I belonged.

What is this blog?

So without having to bore many with the details, I've wanted to get some writing practice lately. I'm not content to just sit and talk about what's good or bad, but actually put myself out there for once. I welcome criticism, debate, and ideas for improvement whether people are addressing my compositional or story-telling skills.

The blog is based on a short-story I worked on in college. I recently came back to it, disliked it, and instead of immediately trying to forget about it, I wanted to see how I could improve myself as far identifying and rectifying flaws in my techniques. I've left quite a few of these identified problems in the early work, hurdles that I couldn't work myself over, not mention the jumbled messes of language resulting from constant second-guessing of myself. If you think you can help, I'd appreciate it, since that's the main reason I created this blog. If I can provide at least a little entertainment, then that's just as cool.

EDIT: One note is that I plan on doing little forewords once in a while, usually outlining different things I'm trying or experimenting with. You can see me do it in my first entry.

First Entry

 Have to start somewhere, I guess. One of my biggest hurdles is trying to figure out what type of tense to speak. in. While I feel present-tense can make a nice a build-up, I sometimes find that I tend to make my writing a little stilted when I use it. I drift in and out between past and present in this entry to see which one suits me most and to maybe get a little practice to see what I can do in each way.
As an introduction to the story, I've always wanted to do something post-apocalyptic, but not in the zombie/Mad Max way. I just want to have a character just being lost and helpless as he comes to terms with the collapse of certain facets of life that every human experiences, but almost all of us take for granted. That isn't to say it will be some self-indulgent snoozefest. Some of my ideas call for a little action and pacing changes. I just didn't want to resort to any tired tropes of the pseudo-sub-genre.

    I arrived in time to feel the distinct Appalachian autumn hit its peak. The marvel of the reddish-yellow mountains and warm sunlight accentuated by sudden gusts of bone-chilling wind brought back a tangled mess of memories. I tried to pick out fond remembrances here and there, but after not being able to distinguish my first kiss from the time I received a stray bullet to the shin after t-ball practice quickly ended any desire to reminisce.
    Peering into the valley from the mountaintop, I was satisfied with my mental cartography and budding navigational skills. My long walk across two state lines was honestly made easier without the aid of roads. Simply following the sun and occasionally consulting a 17 year-old almanac meant less extraneous twists, less twisted ankles on hard, foot-shocking pavement, and less... distractions. As I took in miles' worth of scenery of the valley of my youth, familiar landmarks began coming into view. Steeples indicated churches, churches helped me recall their surroundings, in turn slowly filling out the street map in my head.
    The planning could wait, the pain in my side couldn't. I set my rifle and pack down and opened the zipper. These little ergonomic side-bags may have been the height of comfort and fashion back in the city, but they're surprisingly utilitarian compared to what passed for hiking/camping equipment when such activities were viewed as recreation instead of day-to-day survival. Pulling out of my own head for a bit, I threw aside the plastic shopping bag full of pears I had collected the day before, looking for the source of my waist's vexation. Just as I had figured. The box to the .3006 ammunition I'd collected along with the antique Springfield rifle had broken free of its cardboard bastille and had begun the impossible task of working its way out of the sturdy, machine-knit synthetic linen of the travel bag.
    Satisfied with making camp at the mountain's peak, I pulled out some of the recycled stripper clips, and guided each of the rounds into the embrace of the cheap metal receptacle. Not until the clips were bound together, and sharp tips covered in a cushion of loose cloth wrapping was I content with their punishment for my discomfort. Satisfied with the lack of any sort of wounding beyond a sore, dry spot, I figured that one of the pears I'd picked would help my convalescence. This was the best time to plan my homecoming. I figured the trip into town would take about two days, one alloted for my descent of the mountain to a prominently-appointed farmhouse, the other for navigating the few miles of bare farmland that would lead me to the town center.
    Fatigue overtakes me, and I instinctively begin to untie my sleeping bag from the travel bag. The lack of any real predators and seemingly-unrestricted population of light-attracted insects has mercifully rendered the arduous task of setting up a campfire satisfyingly unnecessary. The warmth, the glow, the pensive moments of reflection and realization all experienced within the basking glow of an open flame are easily sacrificed for the sake of not being covered in bites from various skittering critters in the morning.
    My clothes and insulated sleeping bag provide enough warmth and comfort and what leaves are left on the trees obfuscate what would normally be a piercingly-cold wind. As I pull the hood of the sleeping bag securely over my head, watching the sun set over the mountains on the opposite side of the valley, I begin to think, "If someone told me this was how the world would end, I would have welcomed it years ago."