He dug through the rocky soil on which he knelt, scraping away with hands that were callused despite the thick and worn canvas gloves that protected them. The wet dirt soaked the gloves, chilling his hands.
"See," he thought to himself, "never thought you'd love a simple pair of gloves, eh? Useless for keeping out the cold, but these hands would be bloodied up without 'em, no doubt." He grinned, and pushed away some more dirt to reveal the prize he sought: a humble potato, grown in the land he had claimed and planted by his own hands. The gloves, the dirt, the potato (and the several dozen like it in the field), and his own rough, cold hands... he loved all these things, and his grin grew wider at the thought of all the love there was in his life now. Since the incident twelve years ago, he'd learned to love the hard, gritty, dirty things that kept him alive. Other people were so morbid and unhappy about what had been lost those twelve years ago, but really, he thought, hadn't there been enough time to get over it? No matter; he loved those people who complained anyway, because they helped keep him alive as well, and he them. Still, he wished they could face up to reality a little better.
"After all," he said aloud to no one in particular, "you can't really be miserable when your life's as good as it could possibly be." That's how it was: since the incident, a life sustained by digging up potatoes and sleeping in a crude stone hut was about as good a life as one could get. And happiness was all about living the good life.
He had laughed those twelve years ago, when everything had collapsed and the United States of America was essentially bought by its creditors. He still laughed sometimes, to himself, but he knew it disturbed the others so he tried to only do it when no one else was around. However, just last week one of the others had seen him leaning against the wall of his hut--the first one he'd helped build--giggling uncontrollably.
"Damn you, stop laughing!" She barked at him with the tone of one who is sick of hearing a joke she doesn't get, "What is wrong with you? Do you like the state the world is in? Because if you do, you're sick!"
He stifled his laughter and wiped his eyes clear. "I know you don't think it's funny but try to understand... I saw it coming all along, and the look of shock on everyone's faces was precious. I'm sorry you can't appreciate it; it's kept me in tears of laughter for twelve years. The old world could never do that for me."
"You and Roger are two of the most twisted people I have ever met. I'll never understand any of you crackpots," and she walked off, shaking her head.
Roger was like him. He had seen it coming, he had laughed when it happened, and he still laughed. The traveling merchants talked about other people who were like that. In fact, many of the travelers themselves cracked a strange smile whenever the incident was mentioned. In the survivor communes to the south, they said, people like that were actually called Laughingmen. The world he lived in needed Laughingmen like himself and Roger. For years, they had been the only ones who could smile. Their mad laughter kept everyone alive, and he loved it.
Mmm. Discordian end world. Sexy.
i like it
Excellent!
that was pretty cool.
Thank ye, thank ye one and all. :)
i think it would fit very well in the lollercaust collection, actually.
O RLY? I wasn't thinking of that when I wrote it, I was just trying to express how it felt when I was going through so much chaos and stress in my life that the only way to keep myself sane was to go a little bit insane (bending rather than breaking, etc.) by taking the attitude that everything is funny as hell...
Oh, I guess I was thinking about Lollercaust without realizing it. :lulz:
mind if i steal this, tack it to my wall and give copies to all my friends who like the postapocalyptic scifi thingy?
That was a pretty cool setup.
If you have the endurance, this could make an interesting novella.
Quote from: Regret on March 25, 2008, 02:38:00 PM
mind if i steal this, tack it to my wall and give copies to all my friends who like the postapocalyptic scifi thingy?
Kopyleft, bucko! Use it as toilet paper if you like!
Quote from: LMNO on March 25, 2008, 02:44:28 PM
That was a pretty cool setup.
If you have the endurance, this could make an interesting novella.
I have a friend who writes who suggested co-writing it. But she hasn't been exposed to enough troof, imho, to make it quite what it's supposed to be. I could be wrong though.
That's why you can be the editor.
Meh, I already edit her novel-in-progress. I wanna write some shit.
Problem is, I'm not quite sure what happens next in this little story.
I like it!!!
More???
Quote from: Cainad on March 25, 2008, 04:41:44 PM
Meh, I already edit her novel-in-progress. I wanna write some shit.
Problem is, I'm not quite sure what happens next in this little story.
Typically, the "motivating force".
Something unknown/unexpected happens, and the protaganist gets curious/revenge.
nothing should typically happen. just walk around describing the world for a bit and something will come out of it. I like the idea of laughingmen being like walking gurus. I would like think I could grow up to be one of them. i do end up laughing at inappropriate moments.
I am actually writing a story about a student researching bum society. I might post something.
I think you could add in a few more characters, perhaps describe what his life was like before, but mostly show his life as it is now. What makes him laugh the hardest? Who does he know? What do other people do around him, and how does this affect his life? Is he completely satisfied with his life, or does he yearn for anything else? Get into who this guy is, and what the world around him is like. What if he met another of these Laughingmen? How would that go?
Or take it some other way entirely.
I think it's good, but could definitely be longer and more complex.
What is this Incident anyway (and why call it the incident)?
Another idea...bring in a kid...maybe about 8 years old. one who has been born since the incident. how would such a child react to him?
Flashback. So you can show how the incedent maybe changed the main character. Ah... dynamic.
Quote from: ShoobyDB on April 24, 2008, 07:08:53 AM
Flashback. So you can show how the incedent maybe changed the main character. Ah... dynamic.
Funnily enough, I was thinking about doing this, but I haven't figured out how to do it yet.
Oh, and
BUMP.I actually wrote a new section, but there's still absolutely zero plot going on. Let's just pretend I'm being "artistic" and writing a series of literary vignettes, m'kay? :kingmeh:
The rain fell. It was a typical, cold autumn rain that would leave everything soaked for days because sun was too low in the sky at this time of year to dry it. In another month or two, the rain would freeze as it fell.
He looked out of one of the two small windows in his stone hut, windows for which the glass had been salvaged from a crumbling house... one of those cheap constructions that had been built before the incident. The window looked out on a valley of sorts, formed by the small, rocky hills that this particular commune had settled in. The rain filled the valley and formed a small stream, and this stream flowed over a small, sad memory.
From his window, he could see where some poor fool had tried to build a shelter in the valley. Apparently it had never occurred to him (her, perhaps?) that the grass in the little valley grew greener for a reason... In any case, all that remained were some stones from the shallow foundation and a small pile of rotting wood. No one knew who had built the little lean-to; they had likely moved on after their floor turned to mud with the first rain. He wondered what became of them. Survival was often harder than one believed, as many of those who had survived had learned he hard way.
He had known what it would be like. Perhaps "known" is the wrong word; after living homeless for a year, prior to the incident, he had a much better idea of what it would be like. He grinned, recalling how society had appeared from the bottom up. From down there anyone could see where the weak points were, if they paid close enough attention. He thought about how he had bemoaned the lack of creature comforts, and how trivial his problems back then seemed now. A vagrant's livelihood depended largely on the surplus that society could produce, and on his or her ability to scavenge for it. It was a miserable existence, to be sure, when something as simple as a tissue to blow one's nose on was a true luxury and when one was often at the mercy of thugs, but at least there wasn't too much competition.
After the incident, his experience in living off the excesses of the bloated society of which he had once been a part was very much to his advantage. Scavenging was second nature to him. He had almost been prepared for the collapse, and he chuckled to himself as he realized that being almost prepared was enough to make him a king in the eyes of those who had been caught completely by surprise. A king of the destitute and desperate, of course, but a king nonetheless.
"Don't hail the king," he whispered to himself, now bracing himself against the window in a fit of giggles, "he's just the court jester who got the crown by accident."
Oh, and just as a side note, I'm completely bullshitting the bit about homelessness. Pretty much the entire second half was inspired by listening to "Aqualung" for the first time. :oops: