Posted: 3/3/2005 6:09:11 PM EDT
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This is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class. It's not much, I just banged it out in one sitting, but I guess you guys will enjoy it. Another Time The old man moved carefully through the woods, his mocassined feet stepping silently on the dry leaves and debris on the ground. Had anyone else been around, they would have sworn that he was the living incarnation of Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, and Jim Bowie. His skin was deeply tanned and lined with fine wrinkles, resembling well-made leather. His clothes had been hand-made and repaired many times, the earthy colors of the fabric and the stains of many years of use allowing him to blend in perfectly in the forest or in the crowd. Around his waist was a worn leather belt with a long knife strapped to one side and an ancient revolver on the other. His eyes, sparkling blue, spoke of wonders and mysteries they had seen, the magic of which none of the newer generations would understand or appreciate. He often complained that his eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be; if it were true, his eyes must once have been diamond cutters. His hands especially spoke of the man's age and practicality: callused, but not rough, darker than the skin of his face, and they clutched the old rifle with a strong, sure grip. As he slowly parted the branches of a cedar tree to let him through, his mind wandered as it often did these last few years. He loved that old rifle, older than himself. He had grown up during the Great Depression, and he remembered his father buying the old Winchester Model 94 from a man who needed money more than the gun. His father had spent his last three dollars on the rifle and a box of ammunition. The next day, he had come home, given his son the rifle, the box of shells, a knife, two tin cups, and a backpack and told him that he had a job with the Conservation Corps. At the age of sixteen, he had set out with those items and a half dollar in his pocket and headed west into the deep woods of America. For three years, he stayed there, living off the land and sending his wages home to his family. Then the war had come, and without waiting to be drafted he had enlisted in the army and been shipped off to Europe to crush the nazi war machine. His younger brother had gone to fight the Japanese in the Pacific and died there. He rarely thought of his time in the military; those weren't the memories that were important to him. The old man winced as a tree branch whipped back to slap him in the face. When he was younger, he'd have cursed at it and angrily swatted it out of his way. Now he merely accepted the incident and smoothly continued following the small trail through the woods. He found a set of tracks and bent to examine them; feral hog. A pile of droppings nearby, several hours old, confirmed this. He rose again and continued following the trail between the trees. The pig wasn't important, the freezer at home was full of pork and the two does he had shot earlier in the season. He found his mind wandering again and simply let it go on its way with his blessings. He remembered what had originally led to his being here, in these woods, at this exact moment. When he had come home from the war, he had gotten a job at a department store, managing the sporting goods section. He sold guns, tents, sleeping bags, cook ware, and more to people both competent and ignorant of the outdoors. As time went on, he encountered more and more people who really had no idea what they were doing. The 1950's was a time when people were rediscovering the great outdoors and idolizing the cowboy, and many of them were botching it. Camp fires left unattended burned hundreds of acres of land, hunters who only went shooting once a year couldn't understand why the deer they shot always got away, only to die later where no one could find them, and backpackers were getting lost in the wilderness constantly. He couldn't stand it anymore. He quit his job and applied for work as a park ranger. The majority of outdoorsmen were competent and respectful, but many others needed rescuing from themselves. He'd been issued a badge and the revolver he now wore on his side and once again been sent out into the woods to survive. His eyes misted slightly as he remembered those times. Saving a group of campers by guiding them to high ground in a flash flood; spending seven hours up a tree waiting for a bear to quit trying to take a chunk out of him; helping a group of legitimate hunters track down a poacher and bring him to justice; he had enjoyed that life. This was the spot. His mind reverted to the present as he examined his surroundings. A small clearing in the woods, with tall grass and a patch of wild strawberries, a thicket of cane nearby and the animal trail winding its way right through the middle of it all. Perfect. He examined the hard soil for tracks and found only faint impressions; it had been too long since the last rain and the ground was hard. A quick check of the grass, however, rewarded him with several spots of flattened grass where deer had bedded down for the night recently. This was definitely the spot. He checked the wind direction and sniffed the air. It reeked slightly. That pig was nearby. He drew out his knife and cut several stalks from the cane plants, climbed inside the small clearing he had made, then carefully drove the stalks into the ground around him, making a perfect blind. Unless someone knew exactly where he was, he was theoretically invisible. He sat down and crossed his legs with some stiffness, the rifle laid across his lap. His grandson's wife insisted that he was too old to be going off into the woods alone; his grandson knew better. The woman had once even suggested putting the old man into a retirement home. Not only had he found the mere idea patently ridiculous, he was deeply insulted. Fortunately, his grandson was willing to run interference between the two, and when he was younger had spent many seasons in the wilds with his grandfather, stalking game, learning the names of all the trees, and listening to the old man's stories. His wife was another matter: completely against firearms, saying they were too dangerous and nobody needed them; she seemed especially fond of the idea that he was a doddering old fool, a relic who clung to out-dated reasoning, and was a danger to himself by going off into the horrible outdoors with one of those dreaded guns. The only concession he had made to age was parking the truck close enough that he wouldn't have to carry game more than a mile to it. He certainly wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of showing any weakness. His eyes zeroed in on the brush across the clearing and his ears strained to listen; he made no other motion. Moments later, the feral hog pushed its way into the clearing, grunted in contentment, and scraped its tusks against the ground, digging for roots. After a few minutes without success, it wandered off down the trail. Only his eyes had moved the entire time it was there. He wasn't interested in putting more pork into his freezer; he'd passed up a couple of does the week before as well. He had plenty of meat for the summer, and he planned on having most of it made into sausage or jerked by spring. No, he was here for another reason. He wanted that buck. After marriage, children, and retirement, he had tried to live a leisurely life. He spent time carving wood as a hobby and had grown quite good at it. He tried his hand at fishing, but didn't care it. The rod and reel and all the expensive, fancy equipment simply didn't appeal to him. He'd had more success spearing fish with a sharpened stick before the war anyway. Eventually he had returned to nature and spent much of his life camping and hunting. His wife had tolerated it when she had been alive; she'd understood his love of the outdoors and although she preferred the city to spending the night lying on the hard ground and cooking tubers over hot coals, she still had an appreciation for nature. He'd been fortunate to find someone who was willing to share him with the wilds of America. Now he lived alone, and spent most of his retirement selling carvings, camping, and occasionally writing articles for outdoor magazines. For the last eight years however, he had stalked these woods for one purpose: to get the big buck. He spotted him now and then, usually out of season when it would be illegal to shoot him. He was magnificent; tall, powerful, with antlers that could only be described as awe-inspiring, even to those who cared little for such things. It was a contest for the old man. The buck spent its time being wily and avoiding the hunters each season, and the poachers out of season, and he spent his time trying to put the buck in his grave. So far the buck was leading eight to nothing. Now its muzzle was graying as the man's hair had done decades before, and his wits were still as sharp as ever. The old man had given up trying to out think the deer and was now waiting for it to simply slip up and give him a moment of opportunity. He held his breath and listened. The silence was deafening. His eyes slowly scanned his surroundings, then went back the other way to scan them again. He had sat motionless for more than an hour. All around him was the smell of dry leaves, rich earth, and the crushed leaves of the strawberry plant; it wouldn't blossom until the weather had warmed more. The old man slowly took in a breath and held it; something was out there. If the buck didn't show up soon, he wouldn't get another opportunity to hunt him until next year. Before he had been patient; he had all the time in the world after all. Today, however, he realized that times were changing. He was getting old, the wilds were shrinking as the cities expanded, and more and more legislation against guns, hunting, and camping was being passed. Soon he wouldn't have the chance to get out here like this, assuming he lived many more years in the first place. He exhaled slowly and held it. He still hadn't moved. His eyes tracked a squirrel as it silently moved through the undergrowth in search of food, then returned to their slow study of his surroundings. He wondered if he had any purpose left in life, a reason for being. All his life had led up to this moment, and he was waiting for that one buck to present itself to him. Would his life be complete after he had accomplished his goal? Would he still have a reason for coming out here, or would he finally give in to age and stay at home to spend the last of his time in leisurely inactivity? His time was past and he had lived in a new era for quite a while now. The entire thought process disturbed him and he gladly dropped it when he detected movement. He stared at a tiny patch of brush until he realized he was seeing the back of a deer. He slowly drew in a breath and waited for it to move again. Agonizingly slow, the deer carefully crept forward to the edge of the clearing and froze again, as motionless as the old man. It sensitive eyes, ears, and nose swept the clearing for any hint of danger. They found none. The deer thought about this for several minutes more, then slowly and soundlessly crept into the clearing to forage. The old man breathed slowly, but his pulse quickened. The buck had finally made a mistake. Slowly, so slowly one would never notice it, he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and eased back the hammer. Both eyes focused on the large buck, he carefully lined the blade at the end of the gun up with the slit at the rear sight; he had a perfect shot at the heart and lungs. His finger moved forward until it felt the trigger, then slowly began to squeeze down on it. The buck, through some sixth sense, for there was no sound or wind to betray the old man, jerked its head up and stared directly at him. The two locked eyes for a moment, and the rifle was held steady for the killing shot. The old man put his thumb on the hammer and pulled the trigger, slowly easing the hammer down so it wouldn't strike the firing pin. He laid the rifle across his lap again. The buck twitched its tail convulsively, snorted a challenge, and raced off through the woods, never making another sound. The old man smiled as he slowly, painfully, got to his feet. "Another time, old friend. Another time." |
Thanks. I just banged it out in one sitting an hour before it was due. I was frustrated because once I got started there was so much I could do with it, but time and the page limits held me back. It was a rush job and it shows, but I still like what I managed to do with it. |
I've been working on a survival novel off and on for a little over two years now. Reading Halffast's Lights Out motivated me to work on it some more. So far I have the basic plot banged out really well and am filling in the details and developing the character's. I'm not sure how to end it. If I like what I've done with it, I may just give it an open-ended ending to give myself room for sequels or add new novels set in the same universe but with different characters. I.E., this book centers mostly around college students in Texas and a handful of survivalists, a potential sequel could involve, say, a bunch of Boy Scouts in Oregon or a deserter from the Army in Maine. If you guys want, I can post the other short story I turned in for this class. |
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Here's the other short story I did for class. It's set in the Battletech sci-fi series and again was just typed out in one sitting, originally as fan-fiction for a website I frequent. Dan Silverberg was frustrated. His son's birthday was in three days, and he'd only asked for one thing. Unfortuneately, it was probably the single hardest item to find on the planet, or the rest of the Federated Suns for that matter. Desperate to find it, he had roamed the aisles of a local toy store chain, Federated Toys R Us, for the better part of a day. The size of the store was daunting, as was the sheer magnitude of the task before him. He went to the next aisle and paused. Maybe his son would like some of these. Most of one shelf was taken up by Immortal Warrior action figures. The rest of the aisle was crammed with two-foot tall fully-poseable Battlemechs with electronic features that the Immortal Warrior action figures could sit inside. He checked the price for a Federated Suns Catapult, Steven's favorite mech. Forty-five kroner, and another ten for a generic Immortal Warrior mechwarrior to go with it. Perfect. He put the items into his shopping cart and continued searching for his son's coveted item. He paused in the stuffed toy section. Amongst thousands upon thousands of stuffed animals and dolls, was a small display of Leaders of the Inner Sphere. He smirked as he examined a Katrina Steiner doll and squeezed its hand, hearing a decent simulation of her voice mimicing a speech she had made several months previously. A Hanse Davion doll brought an even larger grin to Dan's face as the recording, in a dead-pan voice, made a joke about Combine mechwarriors that only ten year olds would find amusing more than once. His smile turned to a frown when he discovered that all the Maximilian Liao doll did when you squeezed its hand was scream mild obscenities and gibberish in Chinese. They couldn't all be winners. Dan passed down the next few aisles, mostly devoted to younger children and girls, and stopped in one aimed at the more mature audience. Mature being a relative term, he mused. "The Royal Marines would have kicked the Combine's ass any day of the week!" "I'm telling you Ian, the last Royal Marine died before the Terran Hegemony even came about. I don't see what's so great about guys wearing skirts anyway." "Royal Marines did NOT wear skirts! Besides, real men wear kilts anyway!" "Where's yours then?" "At home. It's windy outside and I couldn't find any decent underpants to wear underneath." Dan shook his head and ignored the two men walking down the aisle as he examined small pewter miniatures for a tabletop game simulating modern combat. His son would probably get frustrated with all the complicated rules, and assembling and painting the miniatures would deplete his sons patience faster than a piano recital. He skipped the next few aisles of less war-related items and looked at several models of sports cars, including the latest Avanti hovercar. His son was only mildly interested in vehicles that didn't blow each other up, so he lingered for only a few seconds. He still hadn't found what he was looking for. After paying for the merchandise he had picked up at the toy store, Dan drove aimlessly around town, trying hard to think of a place that would have what his son wanted. It was a long shot, but a stop at the electronics store might prove successful. The only things that would prove entertaining to a ten year old boy were the video games, and most of the ones within a reasonable price range Steven owned already. Dan frowned as he looked at one package and asked the clerk about it. "I've never heard of this one or the system it's played on." "Huh? Oh, Castlevania 3-D for the Playstation. Yeah, that's been on sale since the 1990's." "You're kidding." "I wish. If you could find a system that old that still works, you might be able to play it." "Wouldn't it be worth more money still in the package?" "No. It's been shuffled through store merchandise and marked down in price for nearly a thousand years. Does this mean anything to you?" "It totally sucks, doesn't it." "Yeah. Just put it back and leave while you still can." Driving away bitter and resentful, and not at all amused at the most recent shopping attempt, Dan did the last thing he could think of to get the one gift his son wanted most for his birthday. He drove to the Federated Suns military recruitment center across from the college. Dan opened the door to the room, careful to be silent, and jammed it open with the doorstop. He moved over beside the bed, walking on the balls of his feet to keep quiet, and set the wrapped gifts down. He glanced at his wife, still asleep in the chair on the other, then at his wrist chronometer. Eight in the morning. He'd been shopping since six the previous evening. He couldn't believe how exhausted he was. He looked at his son, lying in the hospital bed, and smiled faintly. Since an older student carrying chemicals for a class at school had dropped his load, his son had been in the intensive care unit, at least until two days ago. The chemicals had reacted badly to each other, and toxic fumes had evacuated the class for three days until they were sure everything had been cleaned up. His son and two other students, including the one that had been carrying the chemicals, had been overcome by fumes. If the custodian hadn't pulled them out of the hallway, the incident would probably have resulted in deaths for the unfortunate children. All three had recovered somewhat, and his son was moved from intensive care to the pediatrics ward where he could be watched while doctors observed the recovery of his lungs and nervous system. Dan had never spent so much time and effort trying to please his son with a simple gift for his birthday. Soon both his wife and Steven had awakened, and after a round of good morning's and a lively chorus of "Happy Birthday to You", Steven opened his presents. He was pleased with a selection of classic novels, a shirt with his favorite cartoon character on it, and a small camera designed for children. He was grinning with delight when he opened the Immortal Warrior action figure, and giggling uncontrollably when the massive package containing the Catapult was placed within his reach, the laughter momentarily replaced by raspy coughing as he opened it and surveyed his prize. A glance around the room told Steven that no more gifts were forthcoming, and he settled against the cushions more comfortably while his mother cut a cake bought in the hospital gift shop. He hadn't gotten the one thing he wanted most, but it had been a good birthday. His friends would get to visit him tomorow, and anyway he hadn't really expected to get his wish. An itch in his throat stole the smile from his face and he concentrated on not coughing again. Dan mistook the suddenly serious expression on his son's face for disappointment, and decided that now was the proper time. Rising from his seat and setting the ridiculously heavy Catapult toy beside the chair, he glanced at the door to make sure it was wide open. "Steven, I forgot, there's one more present for your birthday." Steven's wide, hopeful eyes and his wifes confused expression told Dan that neither had expected this, and that made Dan feel even better. "So Steven, what, out of everything in the entire Inner Sphere, did you want the most for your birthday?" Steven's face crinkled up in a toothy grin. "A REAL mechwarrior neurohelmet!" Dan frowned, as if the answer were something he hadn't anticipated and had been caught off guard. His son's look of joy and hope slowly died. Dan chose the perfect moment to grin again. "And here it is!" In through the open door came four mechwarriors in full combat gear, coolant vests, armored boots, insulated shorts, and all. One had a neurohelmet too small to fit his head tucked under one arm. The four FedSuns mechwarriors greeted Steven, who enthusiasticly asked them questions that Dan couldn't begin to comprehend, but were answered by each of the soldiers in turn, apparently to his sons satisfaction. A few of them were detailed questions about specific battles, only one of which the mechwarriors had been in, and several were complicated questions about the battlemechs themselves. His sons enthusiasm was such that Dan reflected momentarily that if a heart scanner had been hooked, a nurse probably would have come in to see if he had been force fed a pound of caffeine pills. His wife leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear, "How on earth did you arrange for a lance of mechwarriors to come visit him on his birthday?" Smiling mischeviously, Dan replied with , "I told them where your brother was hiding after he got called up to join the reserves last year." A scowl from his wife made Dan hastily add that he had only been joking. Steven was nearly bouncing out of his bed when the four men presented him with the neurohelmet, signed by themselves and the base commander to Steven. He immediately put it on and laughed himself hoarse, starting a new coughing fit. He put his hand up to cover his mouth, bouncing it off of the face plate and starting a new wave of laughter. The mechwarriors joined in, and told jokes about similar incidents they had all shared, and finally excused themselves after wishing Steven another happy birthday. Steven was asleep twenty minutes later, the Catapult on the shelf beside his bed, valiantly guarding his prized neurohelmet. Dan's wife shook her head, amused. "So how DID you arrange for a lance of mechwarriors to visit our son for his birthday, and with a neurohelmet to boot?" "You remember Nathan, from the office? He signed up last year and helps run the recruitment office downtown. I went down to see if he knew where to find toy neurohelmets and explained Steven's situation to him. He suggested that some volunteers from the base visit the hospital to cheer up all the kids, and arranged to have a damaged neurohelmet being thrown out get rescued in time to make a good gift." His wife said nothing, simply smiled and leaned against her husband, and they watched their son, smiling in his sleep, and occassionally giggling. Dan's efforts had payed off more than he had imagined, and he couldn't be happier. |
BTT for day crew.
I'm twenty. Read the unabridged version of Moby Dick when I was five, the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings when I was seven. I'm quite literate, prefer books to television in most cases. I've been writing short stories about as long. Like I said, I've been working on this book off and on for over two years. I've got most of the plot worked out and lots of ways to develop the characters, I need to just write out the first "finished" draft and figure out an ending. |