Hey, guys. Back again, twice in one day! That won't be happening very often, I'm afraid. I'll barely be able to post once a week sometimes. I'm just too busy. But, this week is different. While I am a book reviewer, I also Write some of my own stuff. I'd like to be able to share some of it, so that's what I'm going to do. I write poetry, short stories, and so on. Every now and again, I'll post a bit of my writing for you all to see. I hope you enjoy it. This first piece is a short story that I wrote a while back. It's a bit rough around the edges, so I have to polish it up a bit, but you can still see it. I'll post the final version when I finish it. Essentially, it's an "end if the world" type thing. The world was hit with nuclear attacks and the survivors are stuck living in an underground bunker. Unfortunately, disaster strikes and they find themselves fighting to save humanity. As I said before, this is a very basic form. It lacks detail and the word choice could be improved. The dialogue and background are a little cringe worthy, too. It's essentially an outline for a larger project, but I think it's still worth it to take a look. So, here goes.
11/17/2037
Our commander wants us to keep journals of everything that has happened and what it is like down here. For what purpose, I don’t know. No one is ever going to see these. The world above is destroyed and there is no hope for rescue. Everyone is dead. Why should we document our misery? But, just like everyone else, I‘ll follow his orders. At least it gives me something to do.
Eight hundred and sixty-three days. That’s how long we’ve been trapped down here. That’s how long it’s been since we were bombed. And that’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen my mother. The memory of that day is blotchy at best. I remember my father rushing into the school after the final bell and beckoning me to the car. He was speaking rapidly into the phone and when he hung up, he turned to me. What he said still haunts me.
“The U.S. has been threatened with a nuclear attack.” His voice was quiet, almost defeated, but powerful at the same time. He told me that we were going to an underground bunker, just in case the threat was real. I think I must have passed out or something because everything went black after that. I don’t think I can write anymore right now. Until tomorrow.
11/18/2037
After the United States detected those missiles, we sent out some of our own. It turned into an all-out world war. Everywhere was hit. The people that weren’t wiped out from the explosions were killed by the radiation. My father had been working with a nuclear company that was developing bunkers to protect us if an attack ever occurred. Dozens are scattered across the U.S. I’m sure other parts of the world developed something similar, but we can’t be sure. Out of the 53 bunkers that had been under construction, we believe ours to be the only one in use. Our group may be the last of humanity. Besides me, there are 36 other people living down here. I don’t really feel important here. Some of the men look at me like I’m a gorgeous model undressing in front of them. It’s disgusting, but the commander won’t let them touch me. Not yet, at least. The other women have filled that role quite well. He told me a few months ago that I wasn’t ready just yet. Thank god. But those who don’t view me as a baby-maker shoot me looks filled with resentment. The other day, Erick confirmed my observations.
“You don’t deserve to be here,” he told me as we stood alongside each other in the ration line. The hurt crossed my face for a split second before I covered it up. Maybe they think I am practically useless; a waste of space and resources. Or maybe they’re bitter because I’m a reminder of what they lost. I don’t know, but it’s hard. I’m all alone in a place filled with people. Sometimes, I think it might have been better if my father hadn’t picked me up from school. Until tomorrow.
11/24/2037
I know that I’m supposed to be writing every day, but what’s the point? Everything stays the same down here, for the most part. Get up in the morning, take a cold shower, eat a meager breakfast of canned peaches or green beans, wander around and do odd jobs for people, read one of the few books we have for the thousandth time, eat another can of soup or spam for dinner, and prepare for bed. I’m not going to update this daily. I’ll only write if something interesting happens, which is why I am journaling today. Someone got sick; one of our women, Alisha, who is in charge of food rations. Whenever one of us becomes ill, we are bedridden until it’s out of our systems. We can’t risk anyone dying down here. No one is really supposed to visit her, except the person who brings her food and the doctor. She doesn’t really look that bad, though. I mean, her skin is a little green around the edges and she looks a bit weak but other than that, nothing looks out of place. She should be up in no time. How do I know this? Guess who they sent to bring her food. Until tomorrow.
11/27/2037
Alisha isn’t looking so good anymore and the doctor can’t figure out what is wrong with her. She had been in the same state as a few days ago, until today. I walked in and she was vomiting into the trash. It was blood. My eyes widened and I tripped over my feet, trying to reach the emergency button. I slammed my hand into it and grabbed the mask from inside my jumpsuit. Sinking into the corner, I put my mask on and waited for help to arrive. I was in shock. The commander, doctor, and my father sprinted in and started to ask me what happened. They stopped midway through and their expressions turned to ones of horror. My dad ushered me out of the room and back into my own, where he proceeded to swipe a card on the touchpad outside. The door closed and a voice sounded above head, saying, “quarantine activated.” My dad walked away without a glance back. Ever since the bombings, he’s not the same man. He doesn’t check up on me. We don’t speak unless he’s giving me an order, and he’s become cold and distant. Sometimes, it feels like we are complete strangers. I am just another mouth to feed and protect; I’m no different than anyone else down here. It hurts, that realization. I sink to the ground, as hoarse cries rack my body. My heart feels like it’s being ripped apart. I don’t have a mother or a father...Until tomorrow.
11/30/2037
I don’t feel any different. Everything feels completely normal, but I think they are still waiting for me to show symptoms. It should only be a couple more days until they take me off quarantine. That is unless I get sick. I have no idea what is happening out there. The image in my head of Alisha vomiting blood won’t go away. I’m scared for her and I am probably the only one who cares. There are no connections between people down here. That’s not to say Alisha and I are best friends, but she’s also been so sweet to me. She’s been more of a parental figure than my dad. She must Survive this. She’s a fighter, I know she is, so she’ll be fine. Right? Until tomorrow.
12/5/2037
Alisha is dead. And what’s more, seven more people have become sick since I was locked up. Seven. How is that even possible?! She wasn’t even in contact with that many people. I mean, yeah, she’s in charge of the food, but she doesn’t actually touch it. She just documents what each person eats and subtracts that from the total. She just handles her clipboard. I was in the same room with her and I didn’t contract it. People are panicked, despite the commander trying to defuse the situation.
“Everyone remain calm. This is just a more aggressive strain of the flu. It’s nothing we can’t handle,” he announced to us a few hours after her death.
The others aren’t nearly as simple-minded as he understands them to be. They know it isn’t the flu. Our two medical personnel have their hands full with those infected. But, it’s no use. They don’t know what killed Alisha and they can’t cure the unknown. They’re primarily focused on the mortality rate of it than anything else. They’re hoping it killed Alisha because she was older than many of the others and was already in poor health. I don’t know, though. I guess we will have to wait and see, but I’ll be praying for her tonight. Until tomorrow.
12/8/2037
It wasn’t just Alisha. Two others have died and a third is on his way. If people weren’t panicking before, they certainly are now. Eight more people have contracted it, and it’s only a matter of time before the rest of us catch it. Everyone is scared. We may not have a perfect life down here, but that doesn’t mean I want to die. They haven’t figured out what’s causing it or how to fix it. At this rate, if they can’t dissect this epidemic, no one will survive. Please, God, help us. Until tomorrow.
12/19/2037
I don’t know how I'm supposed to be feeling. My dad is sick. But then again, so is everyone else. I’m one of two others that haven't shown any symptoms. We’ve experienced more fatalities. At this point, we are down to 13 people. I’ve barely had enough time to eat and sleep these past two weeks, let alone write in this stupid journal. But since so many of the others have been lost, I have entirely too much time on my hands. I don’t know why I’m still writing. We are all going to die, so what’s the point? I get to sit around and watch everyone else suffer, while I’m still healthy. And you know the worst part? I can’t do a fucking thing about it. I can’t save them. And I can’t save myself. Until tomorrow.
12/25/2037
He’s dead. My father is gone and so is almost everyone else. One of the medical personnel, Sebastian, is the only one left besides me. And, as I write, he lays still on the cot, his breathing shallow. I’ve started showing symptoms. There’s this pressure in my chest that started a few days ago. I can’t breathe and I feel so weak. It’s as if all the energy has been sucked out of my body. I can barely move, let alone take care of Sebastian. The only thing I can do is make him comfortable, but it scares me. I don’t want to be alone. He’s the only thing I’ve got left and if he goes, there is no hope. But, even if he lives, does it really change anything? I started coughing up blood yesterday, so it’s only a matter of time before I join the rest. I’m tired and I can’t write anymore. Until tomorrow.
12/31/2037
Sebastian stopped breathing today. I almost didn’t notice, it was so faint, to begin with. Honestly, I don’t think I care anymore. We deserve it. With every second that passes, I can feel myself slipping. Even worse, though, I think, is the desire for it to just stop. I want to give up, to let this disease take me. But I can’t. I won’t go down without a fight. Even as I decide this, though, I know I won’t make it much longer. In the beginning, I really thought this could work. Things would never be the same as they once were, but we could survive down here. No, more than that, we could rebuild our lives. But, as time went on, that dream died. You see, in order for us to live, truly live, and not just survive, the others had to believe in it. And maybe, for a little while, they did. But the spark went out in every one of them as the days passed. The hope that we could be happy was snuffed out, like the flame of a candle when the wick burns up. They gave up. And with that, they damned us all. When our chance to live died, so did our reason to survive. People welcomed extinction into their hearts and minds for no reason. What could their bodies do, but follow suit? The epidemic that swept through our lives didn’t kill us. We did, with our stupidity. Things didn’t have to turn out this way. Nobody had to die. We gave up on the human race when we had no right to. Everyone that lived down here were cowards. They were a disgrace. This shouldn’t be happening. We could have prevented this. But, it’s too late. And now, there will be no tomorrow.
