Apologies for not making due on my promise. I tried writing something, but I could not get it to the quality where I felt comfortable publishing it here. Everything I wrote just seemed too forced. Hopefully I will find the spark that will enable me to write it more naturally and get it up here.
In the meantime, here is this week's Writers Bloc prompt. This is the beginning of a long story that has been germinating in my head for weeks. I don't know where it's going at the moment -- all I have is the main character in this story, Richard, and an unnamed brother and sister who do not appear in this. Richard is obviously more fleshed out at the moment; I know who he is, his motivations and what led him to this moment. The moments that come after are still a mystery, though. Perhaps something will come to me soon. :)
Hope you all enjoy.
EDIT: I always forget to specify this -- I used the "write about an empty building" prompt.
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"Flashes through the Eye of the Lens"
A glimmer. A flash. Then everything was gone.
That is how Richard thought it happened.
He stayed underground for months. For all he knew, it could still be happening. Flashes everywhere -- no longer warning signs but full-fledged destruction.
Richard dropped a glass of water onto the ground, and it broke and scattered. His hand shook. His fingers moved up and down in chaotic tapping motions. That was the last of it.
"Oh, Jesus," Richard whispered, sinking his head onto his lap, his long, black hair cascading about his knees in filthy clumps. This day was going to come, eventually. It was inevitable. The food was almost gone, as well.
Somehow, Richard stood up. His legs wobbled as he shambled to the cabinet at the back of the room. He opened the door and took out his camera bag.
A camera. A flash. Memory cards. Batteries. Different lenses. All there, safe, unharmed, pristine. He needed them to look into the eye of the horror, to find something worth looking at again.
When Richard picked up the bag, a glimmer of light flashed on the gun at the back of the cabinet. Richard's lip trembled, and his breath came out in sharp gasps. He could imagine the warmth lingering on the gun's handle, although it had not been used in months.
He closed the door, then closed his eyes. That was all in the past. The wave of cruelty that had spread through the world saw to that. Richard took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the door leading out of the underground room. The door opened with a slow creak; Richard stepped into the tunnel.
It was dark. Richard could not see where he was going, but he knew the path was straight and true. At the end, he felt for the rope ladder that led up to the surface and climbed it. There was a metal lid blocking the way. Richard twisted the handle, pushed up, closed his eyes and threw himself above ground.
He rolled on his back and opened his eyes. Massive, gray clouds tumbled through the sky. Rain fell on Richard's face in a persistent mist. The ground was as cold as a corpse. A lifeless wind whimpered through Richard's matted hair.
Richard sat up, his palms flat on the ground. He shuddered. He had been expecting something; he received nothing. There was no life in the streets or in the houses. No bodies. No blood. No bones.
But he was surrounded by destruction. The streets were lined with deep cracks that turned them into tiny, jagged mountains; buildings were blown away, and the ones that survived sat with gaping holes set in an eternal moan; cars were twisted and mangled; the world seemed covered in a filter of blue, a haze of deep melancholy.
Richard walked down the street. It was quiet. The silence penetrated his guts and filled them to the brim. He considered taking a photo, but it was all too real to capture on that tiny screen. He did not know what he would do with it.
Suddenly, he stopped. He looked around. Yes. This was his photo studio. It was as wrecked as any other building -- random holes, black spots and death. The cold wind pushed Richard from the back. A dead shiver ran up his spine. He moved forward, unaware, as if something from within the studio was pulling him toward it.
The wind pushed the door open. Richard's studio was dark; all the lights were dead. Deep shadows blacked out most of the building. Dead light illuminated the floor.
Richard stepped forward. Dust gathered at his feet. Everything was gone. His computer station, his studio lights, his cabinets -- everything. The place was emptied out. His eyes darted back and forth.
There's nothing left, Richard thought. It's just an empty shell.
Something fluttered in the corner of the room; the noise made Richard's heart jump. He looked across the room but could not see what was making the noise. It was too dark. He opened his camera bag and took out what he needed -- camera, flash and memory card. He raised the camera to his face, steadied himself and took a picture.
The photo came up on the view screen, and he immediately knew what it was. A poster of a model -- Jennifer. There was a deep gash through the face like a scar on the poster.
The sight stabbed Richard through the heart. Her face was gone. He would never see it again -- beauty blown up and ripped from the world.
He sank to his knees and sobbed.
