I was up all night sick thanks to all the damn pollenating tree's we have here where I live and being sick and thereby bored I plugged ina Bruce willis movie called "Last man standing" and began to veg out to it. Halfway through i got the smackings of some new inspiration.
It's a story about a man, calling himself "Texarkana" in referrence to the place of his birth, and his "life" as it were in the setting of post Great war Texas.
Ive so far written a chapters worth of story so far and figured i might share it on DAC.
Im no professional and school is a vague memory of mine so please bear with my spelling and grammatical mistakes.
Without further ado, the prologue of my story called "Texarkana"
Texarkana
Prologue
It was hot, but that wasn’t anything at all new. The dry wind had picked up now blowing with it the usual soot tinged detritus and fat flakes of yellow ash, covering him in a new layer of grime. Eyes blinking rapidly, he shivered hard despite the swelter.
Five minutes ago there had been no such wind. None. It was as if the very world had taken a shuddering breath in and held it, the already dead earth falling far more quiet than the natural level of silence that remained a constant of life in this blasted hell of a land. It was as if the planet had for five minutes been plunged into some airless vacuum, the stillness teetering on the edge of strange and abject nothingness and frightening in it’s quiet intensity. Then suddenly existence herself shattered.
A sudden flash of light like that of a Sun’s birth swept the earth with it’s embrace and fury, the cascade of radiance overwhelming his sight so much that he was cast into the dark of blindness despite it all. He was knocked flat by the following surge of wind that seemed like some unnamed God’s titanic exhalation, and he slid into unconsciousness.
He came to in darkness despite feeling the sunlight scorching at what little exposed skin it could find. Slowly the black began to gray and lighten and eventually he could again see the pale Blue-green of the sky above him. Ponderously he moved to sit up and like some curious old turtle, craned his long neck forward to peer off into the horizon. Angry clouds had begun to form a massive thunderhead before his still blinking eyes and he harrumphed at the decision suddenly made for him. In this world any weather was bad weather, far gone were the days when man would pray for rain and this new development was no different.
Arthritically, he moved to gather his meager belongings and began trudging away into the wasteland; peals of thunder ushering him along like the whip of some meteorological taskmaster. For the first time in two decades he was heading north, back to the lands of his birth and the origin of his self-taken namesake.
He was going back to Texarkana.
Five minutes ago there had been no such wind. None. It was as if the very world had taken a shuddering breath in and held it, the already dead earth falling far more quiet than the natural level of silence that remained a constant of life in this blasted hell of a land. It was as if the planet had for five minutes been plunged into some airless vacuum, the stillness teetering on the edge of strange and abject nothingness and frightening in it’s quiet intensity. Then suddenly existence herself shattered.
A sudden flash of light like that of a Sun’s birth swept the earth with it’s embrace and fury, the cascade of radiance overwhelming his sight so much that he was cast into the dark of blindness despite it all. He was knocked flat by the following surge of wind that seemed like some unnamed God’s titanic exhalation, and he slid into unconsciousness.
He came to in darkness despite feeling the sunlight scorching at what little exposed skin it could find. Slowly the black began to gray and lighten and eventually he could again see the pale Blue-green of the sky above him. Ponderously he moved to sit up and like some curious old turtle, craned his long neck forward to peer off into the horizon. Angry clouds had begun to form a massive thunderhead before his still blinking eyes and he harrumphed at the decision suddenly made for him. In this world any weather was bad weather, far gone were the days when man would pray for rain and this new development was no different.
Arthritically, he moved to gather his meager belongings and began trudging away into the wasteland; peals of thunder ushering him along like the whip of some meteorological taskmaster. For the first time in two decades he was heading north, back to the lands of his birth and the origin of his self-taken namesake.
He was going back to Texarkana.
"Trolling,Trolling Never Changes"~Unknown E-peen
Crisis Adverted
new post at 4/10 8pm central
new post at 4/10 8pm central
Last edited by TyphoidG on Sat Apr 10, 2010 1:02 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Trolling,Trolling Never Changes"~Unknown E-peen
was the last post part of the story? if so i give it a solid 4.75 stars and one red dwarf and one black midget. keep up the good work 
Chapter 1.1
Wrench
1.1
The smell of death was overwhelming here. Sweet and sickly cloying with humidity that seemed to intentionally spite the aridity of the desert surrounding it. There was something else too, some dark and inviting urge like a primal, growling thing in his mind. It called to him, to defy caution and plunge headlong into the mouth of hell that yawned open from the earth at his feet.
The cave was a naturally formed rent in the bottom of what may have, at one time or another been a small lake, the waters long ago boiled away. Like everything else natural in this world however, the sin’s of a past age had left it aberrant, mutated and wholly lethal. Everywhere cracked bone and bits desiccated flesh littered the ground at the cave’s mouth, warning signs of the horror within. The wind that had been blowing at his back died down and he was again struck by the intensity of the charnel scent emanating from inside. His mind screamed through the hunger that had descended upon him like a red fog. Unconsciously his hands tightened their grip on the unyielding piece of metal held there. As if in some way comforted by a cool steel certainty, his mind became focused and at last he found clarity.
As the plan for what lay ahead formed and solidified behind his eyes, a small smile played briefly across his worn and dirty face. He spared a look down at his hands to the object of his continued survival held in them and shuddered as the memory took him.
1.1
The smell of death was overwhelming here. Sweet and sickly cloying with humidity that seemed to intentionally spite the aridity of the desert surrounding it. There was something else too, some dark and inviting urge like a primal, growling thing in his mind. It called to him, to defy caution and plunge headlong into the mouth of hell that yawned open from the earth at his feet.
The cave was a naturally formed rent in the bottom of what may have, at one time or another been a small lake, the waters long ago boiled away. Like everything else natural in this world however, the sin’s of a past age had left it aberrant, mutated and wholly lethal. Everywhere cracked bone and bits desiccated flesh littered the ground at the cave’s mouth, warning signs of the horror within. The wind that had been blowing at his back died down and he was again struck by the intensity of the charnel scent emanating from inside. His mind screamed through the hunger that had descended upon him like a red fog. Unconsciously his hands tightened their grip on the unyielding piece of metal held there. As if in some way comforted by a cool steel certainty, his mind became focused and at last he found clarity.
As the plan for what lay ahead formed and solidified behind his eyes, a small smile played briefly across his worn and dirty face. He spared a look down at his hands to the object of his continued survival held in them and shuddered as the memory took him.
Last edited by TyphoidG on Sun Apr 11, 2010 10:11 am, edited 1 time in total.
1.2
He had been so young, so full of life and eager to make his name out amongst the peoples of the wasteland. Young and so very naïve. It was no small wonder that he had suffered so greatly for it.
He had known the raiders would be there, he had heard from the older Scav’s in town of their “delights� and brutality. Of how they took pride in the ability to flay the meat off a man’s bones so expertly that he might still be alive to watch as they feasted upon it. He had been told of the raider leader’s generosity when it came to sharing the “fruits� of any new captive with his men. They had all warned him not to go.
He had called them cowards. Feeble old fools too rooted to their little town in the hills to strike out and claim the bevy of riches that lay before them in the ruins of the old Steel yards and foundry’s to the south. The stories had only whet his enthusiasm and he relished the thought of striking down such an ignominious band. Imagining the combined fame of returning with his packs loaded down with untold riches and carrying the head of the feared raider leader gave him the mightiest of a mental hardon as his ego took over completely. He would leave out the next morning like some great questing knight of old, bold before the task and would return a triumphant hero, should he return at all.
He had been so young, so full of life and eager to make his name out amongst the peoples of the wasteland. Young and so very naïve. It was no small wonder that he had suffered so greatly for it.
He had known the raiders would be there, he had heard from the older Scav’s in town of their “delights� and brutality. Of how they took pride in the ability to flay the meat off a man’s bones so expertly that he might still be alive to watch as they feasted upon it. He had been told of the raider leader’s generosity when it came to sharing the “fruits� of any new captive with his men. They had all warned him not to go.
He had called them cowards. Feeble old fools too rooted to their little town in the hills to strike out and claim the bevy of riches that lay before them in the ruins of the old Steel yards and foundry’s to the south. The stories had only whet his enthusiasm and he relished the thought of striking down such an ignominious band. Imagining the combined fame of returning with his packs loaded down with untold riches and carrying the head of the feared raider leader gave him the mightiest of a mental hardon as his ego took over completely. He would leave out the next morning like some great questing knight of old, bold before the task and would return a triumphant hero, should he return at all.
Last edited by TyphoidG on Sun Apr 11, 2010 10:19 am, edited 2 times in total.
"Trolling,Trolling Never Changes"~Unknown E-peen
1.3
It had taken him three full days to make the trek from the little town in Danger-fields to the Lone Star mill. Just three days compared to the week of hiking he had been told to expect from the Scav’s back in town. True it may have been due to his recklessness when it came to not taking shelter through the highsun hours when the heat could cook a man’s mind to mush and the light was enough to scorch a man’s skin and retina’s with hateful impunity. Such notions were for the craven and over cautious and no man ever found glory in the wastes by being either. So he had walked on and at the dusk of the third day he found himself before a blasted and worn Guard hutch nearly overtaken completely by the desert sands. His fortunes were made clear immediately when upon entering the hutch he found the sand preserved remains of it’s last inhabitant, some old wastes ranger or slaver scout who’s missing right arm spoke volumes to the cause of his demise. The body lay slumped near an old and broken short range Ham set complete with an ancient porta-lumen lamp jury-rigged to a sand caked microfusion cell. He knelt beside the corpse and began to wipe away the dirt encrusting the lamps glow-globe and gasped at what was revealed by the guttering light. The dead man was clad in a suit of well made, albeit very sand worn and dirty, leather armor that was tooled with studs of what he would later identify as chrome. It was missing the right sleeve at the shoulder which presumably had some connection to the man’s missing arm, although he would learn some time later that this missing sleeve was a popular style in the wastes, if not a bit impractical for obvious reasons. Quickly he moved to relieve this poor dead bastard of the treasure being wasted upon him and was further awed by the sight of a matte black pistol tucked into a well-concealed shoulder holster. He tugged it free of the holster and studied it intently for a while. It was beautiful, a 10mm work of art and he was immediately saddened at the loss of a race that could create such a thing of wonder and still be brought to the threshold of complete extinction virtually overnight. With baited breath he pulled the clips loose and sighed softly as he looked inside. Empty, he had the utmost certainty they would be. Guns from the Old times were rare enough in these parts but bullets for them were widely fabled to be on the same level of myth as the Lost Vaults. The stuff of children’s stories or the yarns of old sot’s in taverns who told of places far to the northeast where people had more gun’s than they could carry and you couldn’t kick a rock without uncovering some forgotten cache of ammo. As he moved to put the pistol down he reverently pulled back the slide and nearly squealed when a hunk of archaic lead and brass fell from the chamber to the stone floor with a tinkle. With the care of a mother lifting a newborn he held round up to the light. This would be the instrument to forge his legend, his Excalibur to slay the Draconian scourge awaiting him deeper in the Mill. It would be Glorious.
When he finally lay back on his bedroll next to the porta-lumen lamp and the now naked corpse of the dead wastes-ranger it was nearly high moon. He had spent hours cleaning the leather armor until it virtually shone, with a combination of his own boiled urine and Brahmin grease he had collected from the drippings of his night’s meal. As sleep took him his face worked into an impish grin as the dreams of his bright future began to play through his mind. He had no way of knowing then how dark and painful that future would be.
It had taken him three full days to make the trek from the little town in Danger-fields to the Lone Star mill. Just three days compared to the week of hiking he had been told to expect from the Scav’s back in town. True it may have been due to his recklessness when it came to not taking shelter through the highsun hours when the heat could cook a man’s mind to mush and the light was enough to scorch a man’s skin and retina’s with hateful impunity. Such notions were for the craven and over cautious and no man ever found glory in the wastes by being either. So he had walked on and at the dusk of the third day he found himself before a blasted and worn Guard hutch nearly overtaken completely by the desert sands. His fortunes were made clear immediately when upon entering the hutch he found the sand preserved remains of it’s last inhabitant, some old wastes ranger or slaver scout who’s missing right arm spoke volumes to the cause of his demise. The body lay slumped near an old and broken short range Ham set complete with an ancient porta-lumen lamp jury-rigged to a sand caked microfusion cell. He knelt beside the corpse and began to wipe away the dirt encrusting the lamps glow-globe and gasped at what was revealed by the guttering light. The dead man was clad in a suit of well made, albeit very sand worn and dirty, leather armor that was tooled with studs of what he would later identify as chrome. It was missing the right sleeve at the shoulder which presumably had some connection to the man’s missing arm, although he would learn some time later that this missing sleeve was a popular style in the wastes, if not a bit impractical for obvious reasons. Quickly he moved to relieve this poor dead bastard of the treasure being wasted upon him and was further awed by the sight of a matte black pistol tucked into a well-concealed shoulder holster. He tugged it free of the holster and studied it intently for a while. It was beautiful, a 10mm work of art and he was immediately saddened at the loss of a race that could create such a thing of wonder and still be brought to the threshold of complete extinction virtually overnight. With baited breath he pulled the clips loose and sighed softly as he looked inside. Empty, he had the utmost certainty they would be. Guns from the Old times were rare enough in these parts but bullets for them were widely fabled to be on the same level of myth as the Lost Vaults. The stuff of children’s stories or the yarns of old sot’s in taverns who told of places far to the northeast where people had more gun’s than they could carry and you couldn’t kick a rock without uncovering some forgotten cache of ammo. As he moved to put the pistol down he reverently pulled back the slide and nearly squealed when a hunk of archaic lead and brass fell from the chamber to the stone floor with a tinkle. With the care of a mother lifting a newborn he held round up to the light. This would be the instrument to forge his legend, his Excalibur to slay the Draconian scourge awaiting him deeper in the Mill. It would be Glorious.
When he finally lay back on his bedroll next to the porta-lumen lamp and the now naked corpse of the dead wastes-ranger it was nearly high moon. He had spent hours cleaning the leather armor until it virtually shone, with a combination of his own boiled urine and Brahmin grease he had collected from the drippings of his night’s meal. As sleep took him his face worked into an impish grin as the dreams of his bright future began to play through his mind. He had no way of knowing then how dark and painful that future would be.
