Gettin Creative, Part 2
The prompt for this piece was to use 5/7 of the following words: genius, ignite, needle, twice, lover, carry, and dwindle. Without further ado:
It was hot. The whole empty city was hot and caught ablaze. Patterns of heat laced the cement of Times Square, igniting metal and windows and overturned trash cans into a brilliant, intense glimmer.
A boy, no more than 17 years old, walked sluggishly amongst the great disquiet. His ragged plain blue shirt clung defiantly to his sweat-drenched body while his pants, roughly cut at the knee to improvise shorts, fluttered in the dry wind. The sun, a big orange menace in the sky, hung glaringly overhead.
He should not be out now. He knew it was a risk, coming out so exposed. But he ran out of water. He didn’t think he’d run out so quickly.
“I’m so thirsty,” he thought. “Thirsty thirsty thirsty thirsty thirsty.” It clung to him like his ragged clothes, the thirst. He swayed feverishly in the heat, and half toppled, half-sat, under a giant Coca-Cola sign.
His mind wandered out towards the vast nothingness of the city. Tall, monolithic buildings shimmered like a mirage all over. The sky, a great big beautiful blue, melted like a painting against a great, terrible sun. The sun. It was orange and big and engrossing.
The boy shifted his eyes towards the wall he leaned against. Rows upon rows of posters littered the face of the building. Tattered and forgotten, like thrown away napkins from a not-too distant past. Big white posters, typed plainly in big black letters.
“A painless solution for you and your loved ones,” one read.
Underneath the caption an old man laid peacefully in his bed with a carefully primed needle tucked neatly in his hand. His expression was a curious gaze at the bright red-orange creeping hazily through his window. His family watched over him, their somber expressions looking away. Reassuringly, the poster continued.
“Cyano needles. Dignity, into the next life.”
The boy felt suddenly nauseous. A moan escaped his dusty dry throat while his head spun from exhaustion.
“Rest,” he thought. Rest until it’s cooler. He slumped heavily onto his side, hugging the side of the building to maximize his shade. He closed his eyes, concentrating on subduing the spinning of his feverishly hot head. But it was too hard. The heat was relentless. He dwindled out of consciousness.
*************************************************************************************
“Hey,” said a voice. He shook out of sleep but refused awareness. A pair of delicate hands continued to move him.
“Hey, you dead?”
He opened his eyes, first towards the street, than upwards toward a beautiful, soft face.
He stared through half-opened eyes, unable to muster the energy to respond. Her long brown hair and shining lip-ring blocked out the twice-sized orange circle in the sky. He has not seen anyone, much less anyone so pretty, in days.
For a moment he couldn’t muster the energy to respond. Finally he half-gasped a reasonable request. “Water,” he said.
She propped his head upon her lap, slowly pouring from a half-crushed disposable water-bottle into his waiting mouth. The water felt warm, but freshened his mouth all the same.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said. She shifted her legs uncomfortably and added, “Can you stand?”
He nodded and slowly rose to his feet. The blood rushed quickly from his head, dizzying his senses once more against the unchanged heat. He looked around and saw the same familiar whiteness. And the time of day was the same as ever, he noticed. How long had he been unconscious?
He looked at her. She wore a tattered wife-beater and equally ragged pants with a red-handkerchief holding her hair from taking over her face. She stood with her hip-cocked, slightly panting as if in a fever.
“C’mon, we better get out of the sun.”
She turned away from him and headed down the street, walking swayingly between the heat lines floating over the pavement.
“A mirage,” he thought. He followed her.
*************************************************************************************
They sat coolly in her shaded apartment, sipping carefully on glasses of water. All of the windows in the building were flung open, allowing dry cross breezes to whine across the empty halls.
Her room was a magnificent mess. It was as if a whirlwind of people had stormed in and out in a reckless rage, taking nothing but leaving everything in chaos. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Not anymore, anyways. She got up and sat next to the boy, propping her back against the bedroom wall, and relished her water with him.
“I heard they are going to nuke again. Somewhere in Russia. ‘The real sweet spot,’ they said, that’ll get us back in orbit.”
Nukes. He did not want to think about such things. Or needles. Or anything like that.
The boy turned his head and looked at her. He noticed the crane of her neck glistening, the side-bangs of her wild hair matted against the skin. Her sweat permeated the musty, dry air, as if from a heavy, wet breath.
“Where’s your family?” she asked.
He looked away, taking a long, hard swallow from his glass, and gazed at familiar white posters that rustled along the apartment floor. He remained silent, trying to lose himself in that silence. A violent cross breeze shot through the bedroom door, carrying out old men in their beds through the hall door.
She held his hand tightly.
“Tell me you love me.”
He turned his head towards hers. Tears welled up in her eyes as a familiar and longing sadness gripped her face. A look of inevitability, a look of longing. She sat cross-legged, trembling as she stared bleakly into him. Increasing light rays poked through the shuttered windows, casting a slant of hot white across her face.
“I love you.”
It was true. The sun exploded through the half-broken doors and the cracked windows like a hot passion erupting in earnest. They kissed as the sun kissed the room, heating every crevice and nook within. They melted into each other’s arms as they melted. They consumed each other as the sun consumed the Earth.
I'm semi-happy with it. I kinda stole the idea from a Twilight Zone episode in which the Earth is knocked out of orbit, sending it into the Sun. My group members had an issue with that being unrealistic, but eh, it's sci-fi. They also thought that my tone should have shifted more radically once the boy meets the girl, concentrating more on describing the nature of their attraction, which I tend to agree with. I generally wanted to match the imagery of the Earth burning up to young lust/love being hot and passionate but at the same time burning up quickly and, eventually, dying. I feel like I accomplished this to some extent but perhaps not enough. I think if I gave my descriptions of the environment a more sexual quality it will drive the point across better. I also wanted to explore how two young strangers who have lost everything would interact in the final hours of the world.
It was hot. The whole empty city was hot and caught ablaze. Patterns of heat laced the cement of Times Square, igniting metal and windows and overturned trash cans into a brilliant, intense glimmer.
A boy, no more than 17 years old, walked sluggishly amongst the great disquiet. His ragged plain blue shirt clung defiantly to his sweat-drenched body while his pants, roughly cut at the knee to improvise shorts, fluttered in the dry wind. The sun, a big orange menace in the sky, hung glaringly overhead.
He should not be out now. He knew it was a risk, coming out so exposed. But he ran out of water. He didn’t think he’d run out so quickly.
“I’m so thirsty,” he thought. “Thirsty thirsty thirsty thirsty thirsty.” It clung to him like his ragged clothes, the thirst. He swayed feverishly in the heat, and half toppled, half-sat, under a giant Coca-Cola sign.
His mind wandered out towards the vast nothingness of the city. Tall, monolithic buildings shimmered like a mirage all over. The sky, a great big beautiful blue, melted like a painting against a great, terrible sun. The sun. It was orange and big and engrossing.
The boy shifted his eyes towards the wall he leaned against. Rows upon rows of posters littered the face of the building. Tattered and forgotten, like thrown away napkins from a not-too distant past. Big white posters, typed plainly in big black letters.
“A painless solution for you and your loved ones,” one read.
Underneath the caption an old man laid peacefully in his bed with a carefully primed needle tucked neatly in his hand. His expression was a curious gaze at the bright red-orange creeping hazily through his window. His family watched over him, their somber expressions looking away. Reassuringly, the poster continued.
“Cyano needles. Dignity, into the next life.”
The boy felt suddenly nauseous. A moan escaped his dusty dry throat while his head spun from exhaustion.
“Rest,” he thought. Rest until it’s cooler. He slumped heavily onto his side, hugging the side of the building to maximize his shade. He closed his eyes, concentrating on subduing the spinning of his feverishly hot head. But it was too hard. The heat was relentless. He dwindled out of consciousness.
*************************************************************************************
“Hey,” said a voice. He shook out of sleep but refused awareness. A pair of delicate hands continued to move him.
“Hey, you dead?”
He opened his eyes, first towards the street, than upwards toward a beautiful, soft face.
He stared through half-opened eyes, unable to muster the energy to respond. Her long brown hair and shining lip-ring blocked out the twice-sized orange circle in the sky. He has not seen anyone, much less anyone so pretty, in days.
For a moment he couldn’t muster the energy to respond. Finally he half-gasped a reasonable request. “Water,” he said.
She propped his head upon her lap, slowly pouring from a half-crushed disposable water-bottle into his waiting mouth. The water felt warm, but freshened his mouth all the same.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said. She shifted her legs uncomfortably and added, “Can you stand?”
He nodded and slowly rose to his feet. The blood rushed quickly from his head, dizzying his senses once more against the unchanged heat. He looked around and saw the same familiar whiteness. And the time of day was the same as ever, he noticed. How long had he been unconscious?
He looked at her. She wore a tattered wife-beater and equally ragged pants with a red-handkerchief holding her hair from taking over her face. She stood with her hip-cocked, slightly panting as if in a fever.
“C’mon, we better get out of the sun.”
She turned away from him and headed down the street, walking swayingly between the heat lines floating over the pavement.
“A mirage,” he thought. He followed her.
*************************************************************************************
They sat coolly in her shaded apartment, sipping carefully on glasses of water. All of the windows in the building were flung open, allowing dry cross breezes to whine across the empty halls.
Her room was a magnificent mess. It was as if a whirlwind of people had stormed in and out in a reckless rage, taking nothing but leaving everything in chaos. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Not anymore, anyways. She got up and sat next to the boy, propping her back against the bedroom wall, and relished her water with him.
“I heard they are going to nuke again. Somewhere in Russia. ‘The real sweet spot,’ they said, that’ll get us back in orbit.”
Nukes. He did not want to think about such things. Or needles. Or anything like that.
The boy turned his head and looked at her. He noticed the crane of her neck glistening, the side-bangs of her wild hair matted against the skin. Her sweat permeated the musty, dry air, as if from a heavy, wet breath.
“Where’s your family?” she asked.
He looked away, taking a long, hard swallow from his glass, and gazed at familiar white posters that rustled along the apartment floor. He remained silent, trying to lose himself in that silence. A violent cross breeze shot through the bedroom door, carrying out old men in their beds through the hall door.
She held his hand tightly.
“Tell me you love me.”
He turned his head towards hers. Tears welled up in her eyes as a familiar and longing sadness gripped her face. A look of inevitability, a look of longing. She sat cross-legged, trembling as she stared bleakly into him. Increasing light rays poked through the shuttered windows, casting a slant of hot white across her face.
“I love you.”
It was true. The sun exploded through the half-broken doors and the cracked windows like a hot passion erupting in earnest. They kissed as the sun kissed the room, heating every crevice and nook within. They melted into each other’s arms as they melted. They consumed each other as the sun consumed the Earth.
I'm semi-happy with it. I kinda stole the idea from a Twilight Zone episode in which the Earth is knocked out of orbit, sending it into the Sun. My group members had an issue with that being unrealistic, but eh, it's sci-fi. They also thought that my tone should have shifted more radically once the boy meets the girl, concentrating more on describing the nature of their attraction, which I tend to agree with. I generally wanted to match the imagery of the Earth burning up to young lust/love being hot and passionate but at the same time burning up quickly and, eventually, dying. I feel like I accomplished this to some extent but perhaps not enough. I think if I gave my descriptions of the environment a more sexual quality it will drive the point across better. I also wanted to explore how two young strangers who have lost everything would interact in the final hours of the world.
Comments
As for your personal critiques, those are pretty much the other ones I would have. Try adding a little more and letting your writing come out a little more natural.