[url=https://docs.google.com/document/d/12wcd0GeZMVR2wtQc2j0cLom6BOz6bY9WIKiJ7kRqUfk/edit]Story on Google Docs[/url]. Feedback would be appreciated. :)

Gah. Google docs is blocked. Gotta check it via my linode. and lynx shows a blank page. guess I need to view this in a normal browser? -edit- I get an error trying to load it on my phone too.

Try now? Edit: or, since I'm not posting from my phone anymore, I'll just copy and paste. [u]BLISS[/u] His boot-clad feet trudged unwillingly through the thick sand, asking his brain madly, as they did every day, to forsake his futile venture and return to as much comfort as was possible in this godforsaken world. Impervious to their cries that one could hear with every grinding [i]swish[/i] through the waterless beach, he continued determinedly on with his daily pilgrimage. Humans are often that way. When given the cruel choice which fate should never deal between pain of the physical sort or pain within the heart, one will almost always choose the physical pain: at least we know how to mend that. Even after humanity drips away from the earth like the last stubborn droplet of water finally relenting its hold on the faucet and sliding through the air down to the beckoning mouth of the drain...there is still no bandage with which to mitigate the searing pain with origins in the heart. If he were being completely honest with himself, however, this journey wasn't about choosing one pain over the other, even though he had all but convinced himself that that was all it was. If it were, then the end result would be a recompensed heart instead of one that is still crying out with perfervid longing. Nonetheless, he always chose to ignore the pleas of his overtaxed and sweaty – despite the chill of early winter nipping at his skin from the other side of his cotton Polo shirt – body on the first leg of the excursion, and the longing of his heart on the return. In some ways, he was modeling all of humanity, even before they weren't anymore: we all have some masochism somewhere inside of us. Regardless of whether he could find any pleasure in the various levels of pain he was inflicting upon himself, he had arrived. He stood for a moment, breathing the filtered air into his lungs. If he closed his eyes as he did so, he could almost pretend that time hadn't treated him the way it had: that there was nothing between the skin on his face and the warm embrace of Ra, that he could once again feel the actual plastic casing of his Canon EOS Rebel Ti – a remnant of a bygone era within a bygone era, one where light was captured on 35mm film – that he gently fingered, without the leather of his glove intruding like a rude tap on the shoulder during the last slow dance on prom night. His eyes snapped open behind the worn gas mask. He had been thinking that the filter on his mask needed to be changed soon, but that wasn't what made his eyes do their hasty grand reveal. He had been standing up for too long. There was too much time being spent in plain sight where anybody, but especially where [i]she[/i] could see. He couldn't and, quite frankly, didn't want to even try to imagine the trauma that would arise if she saw him. He at once dropped to his belly where he army-crawled to a nearby rock -- [i]his[/i] rock. He peeked over the top to commence his spying and at once made out her silhouette on the horizon. At this point most of them looked alike, but he just knew that was her. Unlike many of them, she didn't really roam too far away from her miniscule camp and, also unlike them, she didn't really socialize -- although that was hardly the appropriate word for what they did -- with the others. Still, faith without seeing is blind. Or something like that. He raised the camera to his face with his right hand and adjusted the zoom and focus on the telephoto lens with his left while propped up behind the sand-coated rock on his elbows. His breathing stilled involuntary because, no matter how many times he saw her, she still had that effect on him. It was almost as if a device had been placed in his gut that worked its way upwards, pushing all of the air out of him as it went and simultaneously making him lighter. He caught his breath again as she turned her face away and looked up at the sun. If he strained his memory, he could remember when Agent K from [i]Men In Black[/i] was digitally zooming a camera in from a satellite on the woman who had his heart and how that look on her face and position of her body had seemed to be replicated by the woman standing on the other side of his camera lens, seemingly just out of reach. He unwillingly began to snap his photos -- not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew that once he did, he was done. He took his time, carefully adjusting the focus and exposure. He was by no means a professional, but that didn't mean he wanted the photos to look like crap. After all, these were keepsakes. To his now highly attuned ears, the snap of the shutter sounded like a train wreck amidst the quiet rush of the deceptively refreshing breeze. His breathing slowed as he waited for her to jerk around at this sound, even though she never had before. Heartbeats passed. Once again, experience trounced instinct and she continued her odd routine without pause. It really was fascinating just to watch her. It reminded him of a homeless person picking through the trash, scavenging for God only knows what. In fact, in many ways she looked like a stereotypical homeless person, and it wasn't just the fingerless gloves that were so often depicted in films. No, it was everything all together: from the way her mussy hair gently caressed her dirt-smeared face to those dull, gray eyes which seemed so devoid of life and hope. In a way, he mused to himself, the disease that was inhaled with every naked breath bore many resemblances to a disease that had plagued societies throughout history, the disease known as homelessness. The shutter closed again. [i]Click[/i]. [i]My god[/i], he thought. Even the cracked skin and colorless eyes that defined the disease at a glance couldn't cover up the beauty that radiated underneath like a sunrise refusing to be confined to the horizon and struggling to break to its zenith. This woman’s natural allure was impervious to disease which had raped the rest of the populace. In that moment, he couldn’t help but imagine the delicious curves of her body that hid beneath loose and tattered clothing. [i]Click[/i]. He blinked. Three pictures. That was all that had been left on this roll of film. That was how many pictures he had just taken. There was no reason to stay anymore other than to torture himself with longing. Heart already throbbing far too harshly for merely one day, he crawled backwards, away from the rock, and rose to his hands and knees. He paused. This moment was difficult. This was the moment when he simultaneously rose from the sand and turned his back on this diseased goddess. This was the moment he dreaded the most each day. Slowly, painfully, he rose and began the trek back which hurt twice as much as the journey there. He had a good mile or so until he reached where he had parked his newly acquired truck, his truck that felt more like a tank than a vehicle any government would let roam free on the highways. Riding in that old F-150 always helped distract him from the pain that burned inside his heart. It’s an odd sensation, having someone you desire so much within reach, but out of reality. It’s like a glass wall in prison separating the criminals from their mothers and spouses, except in this scenario, the wall isn’t just transparent, it’s non-existent, physically speaking. It was a torture of the worst kind. He opened the door to the truck and tossed the camera onto the bench seat. Following the camera in, he slammed the door shut, feeling the confidence of the steel frame echo through the truck. [i]Buckle up for safety[/i], he thought humorlessly as the seat belt remained behind his left shoulder. The key slid into its designated slot and, with a flick of the wrist, the engine ignited. The roar of the V8 engine was really what did it for him. Good ol’ US of A loud ‘n’ proud mechanics always served as a successful distraction. By the time he had arrived at what he now had no choice but to call home, his inner turmoil had given way to excitement. Today was the day he could develop the photos from the week. He eagerly grabbed his camera and practically dove into the beckoning, black mouth of his tent. He groped in the darkness for his flashlight and turned the tip so it would switch to its red setting. He immediately laid the film in a bin full of water and prepared the sodium thiosulfate to make the image ingrained in light permanent. After endeavoring in his recently-learned craft until he was finally satisfied with his handiwork, he hanged the prints to dry. After hardly more than a glance at each photo hanging down the tent-spanning line to which he had clipped all the photos, he leaned back and devoted his attention to the subject matter in all of the photos: her. It really was like that scene from [i]Men In Black[/i]. The memory of the movie came back to him a bit more clearly -- that scene in particular. He knew without a doubt the obvious longing that was inside Agent K had made residence in himself, and he could swear that wistfulness was written all over her face. He reached out, unable to stop himself. His fingers were but a few hairs’ thickness from the silver salt painted onto each paper. [i]Swish[/i]. A footstep ground through the sand outside. Then, as if it were lonely, it was joined by several more [i]swishes[/i] as the footsteps quickened. His pulse sped up to compensate for time slowing. In one motion, he flipped the long flashlight around so that the base made heavy by D-sized batteries was further from his body and turned toward the direction of the footsteps. His tent came crashing toward him as the owner of the footsteps lunged at the tent, probably sensing the life inside. He ducked and rolled to the exit to avoid the center of the tent crashing down and trapping him. As he did a combat roll out (not an easy feat, mind you, while keeping your gas mask firmly in place), coming to his feet, flashlight extended menacingly, he saw his attacker. It was one of [i]them[/i], of course: the diseased. The first few times he had encountered them, he had tried reasoning with them, despite the television’s warnings about the futility of such an action. Apparently, one of the areas of the body the disease effected was the speech area. What was it called? Boca...Roca...no, close. Broca’s area. That was it. He could only remember because he had been born in a hospital in Boca Raton, before the disease. If you combined the words, you got something kind of close to Broca. At any rate, trying to verbally reason was out of the question. Aside from usually not being able to talk, they also had trouble understanding speech and speech-related gestures, which pretty much put communication of any sort other than physical pain in a category usually reserved for ice’s residence in hell. Speaking of physical pain -- [i]crack[/i] -- this diseased person may not have even felt it before passing out as the flashlight connected with its temple. Their peripheral vision was also impaired, which made it relatively easy to blindside them as they charged. He stood heaving over his fallen attacker and at once he saw them. All of the pictures he had accumulated over the past month when he started his practice just two weeks after disaster struck where now flying away, hopelessly scattered in the wind. They had been near the entrance to the tent; he must have knocked them out during his stellar performance as an action hero. He slowly lifted the heavy material he had chosen for its ability to block out light. The pictures inside were gone. They hadn’t had time to dry, and the image was destroyed. Taking and developing these photos had been more than just a way to tell what day it was and how many had passed. This had been his way of coping. This was his outlet. This was how he dealt with his loss and with his longing. This was his sanity, for crying out loud, that he was watching run away on the diseased wind. He sank to his knees, helpless. He wept. Time whispered around him, not daring to actually tap his shoulder and make known its presence. He finally arose. He trudged, momentarily staggering almost drunkenly, to the truck. He began to drive. He didn’t bother with his usual routine of caution. Caution hadn’t served him as well as he had hoped. He had been followed. That had to be it. One of them had seen him at some point in his routine and followed him, with anger they could not help racing through their veins, desiring nothing more than to beat him senseless merely for not being diseased. He wasn’t sure how they knew. They couldn’t actually see his skin. He made sure to cover it all up so that from a distance suspicion wouldn’t be aroused. Yet, somehow, they knew. Soon, that would change. He slammed on his brakes, sand flying as the tires stood their ground. He was here. He stared out through his sand-blasted windshield. There she was. She had risen from her perch on a five gallon bucket sitting outside her tent, somewhat timid and uncertain. She wasn’t like the others that way. For some inexplicable reason, the disease seemingly hadn’t triggered her aggressiveness, in the same way that she had retained her inherent shyness. He opened the door without taking his eyes off of her and stepped out of the truck. The world was silent. The wind had left to give them their moment of privacy. The sand didn’t even seem to give out it’s normal swish of protest. Instead, they glided to each other until they stood a mere two feet from each other. He looked at her through the plastic visor with tear-stained eyes, then, as another tear rolled down his cheek, he reached up and took hold of the mask. He took in one more breath of air. One last breath of air. Then the gas mask was gone. He looked into her eyes to see if she understood. Emptiness returned his stare. He, ever so slowly, took her hand and, without looking, began to work at her glove. Once removed, she looked down to see her newly exposed flesh as if this was a revelation. He quickly pulled off his own glove so that their naked skin could touch. He could feel walls breaking inside of him as his heart was torn in two at this union. Finally, the metal of their wedding bands, ever so quietly, clinked. The two bands together did it. She threw herself into his arms and did something he didn’t know she was able to do. He felt moisture accumulate on his shoulder by her eyes. She was crying. That was okay, though. She wasn’t alone. His own tears were creating dirt streaks down his cheeks from his tightly shut eyes as a gentle breeze cooled the liquid against his skin for the first time in what felt like ages but had actually only been months. He opened his eyes momentarily, just so he could capture this image in his mind forever. Then, as his skin began to crack, his colorless eyes closed and all he knew was the bliss contained in his arms.

It worked now. Lol kind of feels other earth ish with the disease and all, but with an interesting twist. I liked it. Some of the wording is awkward but on the other side the imagery was great.and I'm on my phone so this is being cut short a bit

[b]serfofChrist92 wrote:[/b] [quote]It worked now. Lol kind of feels other earth ish with the disease and all, but with an interesting twist. I liked it. Some of the wording is awkward but on the other side the imagery was great.and I'm on my phone so this is being cut short a bit[/quote] Yeah, much of it was written at 4am. I'm still popping on and fixing awkward sentences every now and then. :P Yeah, initially I was thinking something like a cross between the Darkseekers from I Am Legend and zombies, but then after my friend pointed out it what you did, I realized it was more like a cross between Darkseekers and Horde.

Yeah I thought I am Legend with the violent tendencies and the disease mask and whatnot, and Horde in the gray cracked skin. Are you planning on writing any more or is this a single short story?

[b]serfofChrist92 wrote:[/b] [quote]Yeah I thought I am Legend with the violent tendencies and the disease mask and whatnot, and Horde in the gray cracked skin. Are you planning on writing any more or is this a single short story?[/quote] Honestly I hadn't really considered writing anymore. I mainly wrote this one because I wanted to turn it in to a short film, to be honest lol.