A Hatful Of Rain

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
first chapter of my short novel.

Submitted: August 29, 2010

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Submitted: August 29, 2010

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-So we beat on, boats against the current
, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
 
 
We all had some reason to go back. A reason to turn back the minutes, hours, days, months, even years, and change something. Whether it was something small and only significant to oneself or something catastrophic which could have altered the face of what we once knew as our great Albion. We all had our reasons. Our country, our world was a desolate wasteland full of hollow skeletons of what once stood. Buildings collapsed, plant & animal life is close to no known existence and humanity is scarcely populated throughout each country. People, including myself, used to only see war as a thing that was fought in a far gone place. We all believed we would be safe in our homes. We underestimated everything. The leaders of each country seem to think that the philosophy of “An eye for an eye…” should be and was applied to this recent call of arms. One attack was unleashed upon a country which left devastation so that country retaliated. There was no sides, no line drawn in the sand in which different countries stood either side of, just cataclysmic destruction brought upon the earth, scorching everything in sight and leaving the world a barren shell.
 
My parents were on a two week trip to New York to celebrate their anniversary, when the skies turned a dark grey and most of the states including New York were wiped out. I was left at home, being a single child of seventeen safeguarding our Edinburgh home whilst they were away. My mother was on a payphone to me whilst she knew something terrible was about to happen. As she told me how “It was going to be okay… We’ll see each other again” I couldn’t dismiss the sound of debris hitting cars and the pavement or the sound of the phone going stone cold dead. I sat on the floor listening to the flat line of the phone. This war had been predicted a mere days before the destruction fell upon us and after my parents had been in New York for little over a week. I still believe there over there, surviving. Just like me. I’ve come across a few single survivors in Edinburgh since the Great War ended itself, and each of them must think to themselves “A boy of his age, parents presumed gone, he must still have ounces of hope left in his body” Well my hope resides itself in New York, and whatever has happened to my parents, my hope lies with them.
 
I try not to stray too far into the city itself. Princess Street is now a long stretch of road akin to the Australian Outback and populated by thugs armed with crude makeshift weapons looking to attack surviving folk and pillage what little things they possess. I may not have done too well academically but I’m intelligent in this new world. I know where to hide, how to scavenge what food I can if any food at all and I can defend myself if a time should arise. Soon after the phone call from my mother I decided not to stay in our home and left with a heavy backpack full of food, water and other essential items I thought I might be able to use outside. As the dust and smoke from the grand impact of the bombs has filled the sky, each day is as cold as the last, the strong shadow of dust and smoke enveloping the sun out of view and obscuring it as if it was never there. So I put layers of clothes over my body to stay warm in this newly created climate. I was surviving, but survival is only a feature which can surely or suddenly run out.
 


© Copyright 2018 Thomas Willis. All rights reserved.

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