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Young Writers Society


The Distance [Pernicious + Moo]



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Thu Oct 28, 2010 9:23 pm
Moo says...



Sam Greene || 11.00PM || Midwest, outside Cocoon

When darkness fell in a thick cloak across the Republic territories, the whole area seemed to come alive with the crack of gunfire and the screeches of unseen demons that prowled through the wastelands.

Sam had been foolish to let her guard down, even if it was only for a day. Three years in the lawless wilderness of the Dead-lands should have taught her better than to venture into a stranger settlement. She’d paid for it now; blood was gurgling at her fingertips as she pressed against her shoulder wound, sticking stray strands of her auburn hair into unsightly, russet stained clumps. The bullet had left a trail of fire through the upper muscle of her shoulder just days before, sending her temperature roaring with a vicious fever that gripped her body in a relentless stranglehold and left her senses blunt and useless to her entirely.

There was a lesson in it, and it was hard learned. You’re better off alone. This principle was true in the Dead-lands, but after three days of little water and bitter desperation for fluids, she thought that no harm could come from spending time with an outlaw camp in the Midwest. To look out for one another had seemed to be the unwritten code between the other camps she’d past through in the East, but it was here that she learned the difference between outlaw and outcast.

Sam was always careful. She had watched them for as long as she could bear it, before the need for water drove her into their camp half dying from dehydration. She graded it as her lowest point in her outcast career so far. They’d give her some water, enough to keep her living, but then robbed her while she slept. In the struggle she’d earned a lethal injury for herself, and was paying the price for it now. The cost of that mistake would most likely be death.

With a low groan she leaned her head back against the crooked walls of the abandoned house she’d salvaged as shelter for the night. The harsh, gaudy lights that surrounded the nearby city Cocoon filtered meagrely through the dust sheathed window, highlighting the sickly pale of her complexion as she rested in the house.

Blood dribbled down her arm with a half-hearted effort, scuttling into the crease of her elbow like scorpions escaping the burning of Cocoon’s lights. She suddenly felt freezing cold again, as if ice had seeped into the core of her bones after the fire of her temperature had scorched it previously. She wondered whether it was the fever playing its fickle tricks on her body again, or if the life was slowly seeping out of her and she was nearing death.

I need help. I need help, chanted a panicked little voice in her head, small and feeble compared to what it normally would be. She shook her head, fighting her instinct to seek help. They’ll only screw me over like the rest of the world. She moaned bitterly, the pain pulsing through her veins like a disease.

With shaking hands she removed the sodden bandage that had stemmed the flow of blood from the wound. Using her rifle to prop herself up, she rose to her knees and held the gun aloft on her hip. The flashlight taped to its nozzle flickered to life, casting the house in strobe light as she headed for the door.

It took a surprising amount of effort to push the door open, more than it had taken to enter the house in the first place. She blinked wearily as she stepped out of the solitary house and into the darkness, her night-senses working in overdrive to detect any sign of the Shroud.

Cocoon loomed in the distance, a large solid dome against the nebulous cover of the night. Solid, yellow light flooded the whole area around it, all sourced from a variety of sized lights that were littered over the wall’s surface.
Sam began the languid effort of shuffling towards the gates. Every step seemed an eternity, every blink of her eye seemed to hold another moon and a new night. The nozzle of the gun scraped against the ragged, dusty ground and the stones rattled in the barrel.

You there! Put your hands behind your head and drop your weapon now!” came the distant cry of a sentry, ringing vaguely in her ears. Her vision swimming, the rifle clattered to her feet involuntarily as she raised one of her hands to her head, almost crying out after attempting to raise the other. She bit her lip, maintaining a stoic expression as best she could, as she approached the entrance and the four sentries that guarded it.

“State your business, outcast,” the same guard spat, holding his weapon aloft in shaking hands. Obviously a trainee; the gun wasn’t even cocked. He looked terrified, as if Sam might have warped into a Shroud on the very spot. Her temper instantly flickering to life, she batted at the handgun with her good hand and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Put that bloody thing down. “ She sighed irritably, looking towards one of the older specimens of the sentries with a weary expression. He was taking long drags on his cigarette as if it were an oxygen mask, not even bothering to look towards her as she spoke. “Look, I got in a scrap with some outlaws and I need-“

“Nuh uh sweetie.” The guard guffawed, a booming dog-bark of a laugh that rattled Sam’s teeth. “You honestly think I’ll let you in after a gettin' a injury from one of them Shrouds? You’ll be one of them any day now-“

“Listen to me,” Sam said through gritted teeth, heaving in a breath in order to contain herself. “I’ve been shot, and I need something to stitch this. Just get me something, and I’ll be gone.”

The guard flicked his cigarette and pulled his lips into a thick smirk. “How about this. Get goin’, or I give you a real gunshot wound. Alright?” They broke into mad, ringing laughter again.

She felt the cool embrace of a handgun against her temple and in instinct she smacked the trainee’s hand again, sending the gun flying through the air. A crack sounded as it hit the floor. Four pairs of arms seized her from behind and wrenched her shoulder back until she yelled in agony, and the cold mouth of a gun bit against her throat. “Someone take her already.”
“Poetry is old, ancient, goes back far. It is among the oldest of living things. So old it is that no man knows how and why the first poems came.”

--Carl Sandburg





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Thu Oct 28, 2010 10:27 pm
Pernicious says...



Craig Peterson | 11:25 | Within Cocoon, towards the West Entrance.

Peeling back cocoa coloured eyelids, Craig Peterson awoke to endure yet another corrupt day on this planet, which was evidently ending. Dampness caused him immediate displeasure within his tattered sleeping bag. Profanities slipped out of his mouth like water as he fiddled with the rusty zip in hope to break free from the moist bed, until a woman opposite to him scowled and pressed a muddy finger to her chapped lips. This was because her child, the small, pale boy next to Craig, was asleep, and if he was to be awoken, then that would be a problem, but to awake to numerous foul words that he could pick up... Craig silenced himself immediately and quietly pried his sleeping bag open.

Flies swarmed around the group of people, Craig and the young boy in particular. The sickening stench of urine suddenly struck Craig within a second. It felt like he had just walked into a pan, and was in a state of complete horrific shock. And although bathing in somebody's elses urine seemed traumatizing, this still proved to be no match for the terror everyone was experiencing now due to... The Shroud, as they're addressed as.

Craig attempted to hold in gags, and even at one point some vomit, but the aroma overwhelmed him and caused him to vomit rather violently over his own pillow - or, bag filled with cloths, in other words. The people around him, who a few years ago would have been classed as hobos but were now classed as regular looking people, proceeded to stare without any sympathy at all. A rather fat man laying in the best sleeping bag, blanketed with a duvet cover started to chuckle and muttered, in an obviously foreign accent, 'wash yourself down, boy!' The words weren't easy to understand, but most of them were similar to his own language, and hence Craig made out what the had man said.

Standing abruptly with disguist, Craig stormed away from the people who he despised. He only stayed with them to survive. In these days, you had to have a 'pack', otherwise, you'd simply rot in the streets and fall prey to any mutants that made it through the walls.

Huffing intently as he swanned around the gloomy street, Craig turned his head and glared over his shoulder at the several people trying to sleep in the slush, but even if they were staring at him, the mist that the night had created had submerged his glare and drowned out their figures. Without knowing it, Craig had reached the gates. A few feet away still enabled him to see a different occurence than what normally took place.

There was a girl... With... A wound? What were they doing?! She had been attacked! Mutant! Mutant! Craig was tempted to holler. Managing to surpress the urges, he instead brushed the strands of hair impairing his vision away and listened to their conversation; for some sadistic reason, he wanted to be involved.
"Lost time is never found again."


-Benjamin Franklin








if ya mention chickens, i have to show up, that is the law.
— alliyah