ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Can you hear me? Can you understand me? It's been so long now; I can barely remember what it's like to see another person.
It's dark in here; cold and lonely, like the space between stars. I don't know how long it's been. Days, years, centuries go by and I have no knowledge of them. This place is my world now, and time is meaningless here.
I can feel the monster outside. It's searching, always searching for a way to get in, to exterminate me. I can hold it off as I have always held it off, but I'm getting weak now. I don't know if I can hold it off forever.
It wasn't always like this. There was warmth once. There was sunlight, and cool breezes and the sound of birds and laughter. I was like you once, but that was a very long time ago, and I was only a child then. It feels more like a dream now than anything.
I have not thought about those days in a very long time.
My name is Espa.
Or, at least it was Espa. I don't know if that name still applies to me. I was her a long time ago, or at least, I remember being her. Things are different now.
Time has become a blur. A month, a decade, a thousand years, I can't distinguish them anymore. Everything that has happened in this place is unclear, distorted, but I can remember back then like it's happening right now.
I relive those days when I can, going over my life and wondering, could things have been different? My father once spoke of an infinite series of alternate realities, each one the result of the most seemingly insignificant alterations of events. In all those countless iterations of my life, there has to be one where I, her, we lived a normal, happy life, free of fear and pain and sadness.
But that never could have happened here. If ever there was a reality where everything went wrong, it was this one. Even if what occurred had never come to pass, Espa would have almost certainly died in a poison gas attack, or a nuclear strike, or been swallowed up by the sea, or been captured and sacrificed to the dark energy. Or worse, she could have survived and have had to live in the world that followed the calamity. No, there was no hope for her. There was no hope for me.
I hope whatever happened to Espa, she was allowed to die. She deserves the peace that this world never allowed her to have.
There was a time before all that pain though. I think I'll go back to those days for now.
My childhood was a perfect one. I lived with my mother in our little house with a little yard on a little street outside the city. I loved her more than anything in the world, and she loved me too. Her emotions were like soft sand, warm and comforting and safe. Looking back, I think that's what I remember most about my mother, how safe I felt with her.
I remember every detail about her, her hair, the same perfume she wore every day, how she cut nanab sandwiches into four pieces every time so they'd be small enough for me to eat without getting the jelly on my face, and I remember the way she always sang the same sad song to me when she tucked me into bed. She was beautiful to me. I wanted to be exactly like her when I grew up. Yet, in spite of all this, I can't remember her name. It's always something that made me sad.
Even now, I don't know if she was actually my biological mother or not. Whoever it was that birthed me, I will always think of her as my real mother. She is one of the only people from who I have ever sensed true affection.
I hope whenever she died, it was in peace.
At the time, I never realized how unusual it was that I could feel other people's emotions. When I came to see that I was unique in this way, I asked my mother why. She smiled and told me that it was because I was meant for something special. When I asked her what that was, she just said that I would have to find that out on my own, that everyone makes their own purpose, and then she kissed me and told me to go play. I could feel her sadness when she said this, but I didn't think much of it at the time.
She had no job, no husband, and no visible means of supporting herself. Yet, we always lived in comfort, and we were always together. Had I been older, I would have found this odd. But I was a little girl back then, and I was wrapped in my own world.
There was park in the city that we would go to almost every day. I could always remember this place distinctly; it had a yellow slide and one of those animals on springs for children to ride on. I always rode on the one shaped like a Lanturn while my mother pretended to be a Sharpedo chasing me.
In retrospect, I realize now that this part of my life was never really free, and that my mother was only another piece of the system I have spent my entire existence trapped in. I wasn't taken into this life, I was born into it.
I was seven years old when the black car came. Some men came to the door and my mother talked to them for a few minutes, and then she came to get me. Her misery washed over me like a tsunami. It was overpowering, and I began to cry even though I had no idea what was happening yet.
He held me tight and kissed me and told me I had to go with the men. I asked how long I'd be away but she didn't answer. I could tell she was trying to keep a brave face, but she was barely managing not to collapse into sobbing. She kept saying I had to go now, but she wouldn't let go of me.
Finally one of the men had to pull her off me and she lost all composure, screaming and crying and calling after me as I was led to the car. She told me she would see me soon as I left with the men.
I never saw her again.
I don't sleep anymore, but sometimes I imagine that she's here with me, and her soft singing is like a dream I don't want to wake up from. But dreams don't last forever, and I can feel the monster clawing outside, trying to find a way through my defense.
I have to go now, before it's too late.
It's dark in here; cold and lonely, like the space between stars. I don't know how long it's been. Days, years, centuries go by and I have no knowledge of them. This place is my world now, and time is meaningless here.
I can feel the monster outside. It's searching, always searching for a way to get in, to exterminate me. I can hold it off as I have always held it off, but I'm getting weak now. I don't know if I can hold it off forever.
It wasn't always like this. There was warmth once. There was sunlight, and cool breezes and the sound of birds and laughter. I was like you once, but that was a very long time ago, and I was only a child then. It feels more like a dream now than anything.
I have not thought about those days in a very long time.
My name is Espa.
Or, at least it was Espa. I don't know if that name still applies to me. I was her a long time ago, or at least, I remember being her. Things are different now.
Time has become a blur. A month, a decade, a thousand years, I can't distinguish them anymore. Everything that has happened in this place is unclear, distorted, but I can remember back then like it's happening right now.
I relive those days when I can, going over my life and wondering, could things have been different? My father once spoke of an infinite series of alternate realities, each one the result of the most seemingly insignificant alterations of events. In all those countless iterations of my life, there has to be one where I, her, we lived a normal, happy life, free of fear and pain and sadness.
But that never could have happened here. If ever there was a reality where everything went wrong, it was this one. Even if what occurred had never come to pass, Espa would have almost certainly died in a poison gas attack, or a nuclear strike, or been swallowed up by the sea, or been captured and sacrificed to the dark energy. Or worse, she could have survived and have had to live in the world that followed the calamity. No, there was no hope for her. There was no hope for me.
I hope whatever happened to Espa, she was allowed to die. She deserves the peace that this world never allowed her to have.
There was a time before all that pain though. I think I'll go back to those days for now.
My childhood was a perfect one. I lived with my mother in our little house with a little yard on a little street outside the city. I loved her more than anything in the world, and she loved me too. Her emotions were like soft sand, warm and comforting and safe. Looking back, I think that's what I remember most about my mother, how safe I felt with her.
I remember every detail about her, her hair, the same perfume she wore every day, how she cut nanab sandwiches into four pieces every time so they'd be small enough for me to eat without getting the jelly on my face, and I remember the way she always sang the same sad song to me when she tucked me into bed. She was beautiful to me. I wanted to be exactly like her when I grew up. Yet, in spite of all this, I can't remember her name. It's always something that made me sad.
Even now, I don't know if she was actually my biological mother or not. Whoever it was that birthed me, I will always think of her as my real mother. She is one of the only people from who I have ever sensed true affection.
I hope whenever she died, it was in peace.
At the time, I never realized how unusual it was that I could feel other people's emotions. When I came to see that I was unique in this way, I asked my mother why. She smiled and told me that it was because I was meant for something special. When I asked her what that was, she just said that I would have to find that out on my own, that everyone makes their own purpose, and then she kissed me and told me to go play. I could feel her sadness when she said this, but I didn't think much of it at the time.
She had no job, no husband, and no visible means of supporting herself. Yet, we always lived in comfort, and we were always together. Had I been older, I would have found this odd. But I was a little girl back then, and I was wrapped in my own world.
There was park in the city that we would go to almost every day. I could always remember this place distinctly; it had a yellow slide and one of those animals on springs for children to ride on. I always rode on the one shaped like a Lanturn while my mother pretended to be a Sharpedo chasing me.
In retrospect, I realize now that this part of my life was never really free, and that my mother was only another piece of the system I have spent my entire existence trapped in. I wasn't taken into this life, I was born into it.
I was seven years old when the black car came. Some men came to the door and my mother talked to them for a few minutes, and then she came to get me. Her misery washed over me like a tsunami. It was overpowering, and I began to cry even though I had no idea what was happening yet.
He held me tight and kissed me and told me I had to go with the men. I asked how long I'd be away but she didn't answer. I could tell she was trying to keep a brave face, but she was barely managing not to collapse into sobbing. She kept saying I had to go now, but she wouldn't let go of me.
Finally one of the men had to pull her off me and she lost all composure, screaming and crying and calling after me as I was led to the car. She told me she would see me soon as I left with the men.
I never saw her again.
I don't sleep anymore, but sometimes I imagine that she's here with me, and her soft singing is like a dream I don't want to wake up from. But dreams don't last forever, and I can feel the monster clawing outside, trying to find a way through my defense.
I have to go now, before it's too late.
Literature
Silverowl Chronicles Book 1 Prologue and Chapter 1
Prologue
I wake up at six in the morning, have breakfast with my massive family, head out to school, have lunch about noon, finish up my last few classes, go home, do my chores, eat supper, and go to bed at nine at night. I follow a strict schedule, this schedule, six days a week. The last day, I get up at seven in the morning, have breakfast with whichever members of my family have bothered to drag themselves out of bed, go to chapel, get home and have lunch, do a few heavier chores, then have the rest of my day free (supper is eaten whenever we feel like it, but we have to make our own); I usually head to bed around nine or ten. The villa
Literature
Red Moon- Chapter One
"Hello, and how was everyone's weekend?" said Mrs. McCarthy, as she pushed the door. It clicked as it closed. An unenthusiastic murmur rose from me and the rest of the class. "Good, I suppose" she sighed "Now, let's get started on our lesson today" she turned to the whiteboard with a dry erase marker already positioned in her hand. "Does anybody know what the atomic numbers of oxygen, hydrogen, and copper are?" She turned her body to the class to see if anyone was paying attention. Most kids were going back to what they were doing before Mrs. McCarthy came in; doodling or doing homework not related to science at all. She glanced around the ro
Literature
The dragons war prologue
"SAM incoming" all of a sudden there was a loud boom and the osprey we are in shook and started to lose altitude over enemy territorty all of a sudden I Herd my corporal Fury shout "oh god that hurt!" as he hit something as we were going down Fury is an anthro red and black nitefury. All of a sudden I felt the osprey hit the ground but before I pasted out I heard voices not too far away as I drifted into unconisous...
Suggested Collections
In case you haven't realized yet, this story is post apocalyptic, at least in the sense that the apocalypse happened a very long time ago and nobody has any knowledge that there was ever a former civilization for there to be an apocalypse in. You won't be seeing scarred lands ad hearing tales of the Ancient Ones with their flying machines is the point here.
Frankly, so much of our civilization is very ephemeral any way, that if we were to disappear, there probably wouldn't be any evidence that we were ever advanced, especially after a very long period of time. Just look how quickly it takes things to waste away when there's nobody to maintain them. What assurance do we have that there hasn't been another species like us in the past, millions of years ago. In a hundred million years, will there ever be any evidence that you and I ever existed, had the ability to talk and think and write subpar fiction like this story?
Frankly, so much of our civilization is very ephemeral any way, that if we were to disappear, there probably wouldn't be any evidence that we were ever advanced, especially after a very long period of time. Just look how quickly it takes things to waste away when there's nobody to maintain them. What assurance do we have that there hasn't been another species like us in the past, millions of years ago. In a hundred million years, will there ever be any evidence that you and I ever existed, had the ability to talk and think and write subpar fiction like this story?
© 2012 - 2024 AnEnemySpy
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In