So I had to write a short story for English while (loosely) mimicking some of J.D. Salingers writing style, so there are things in here I would normally write differently. We could set the story in any time period so I was like "firetruck yeah science fiction time". So I wrote this. I think it's pretty decent, definitely not anything amazing but I tried.
Tell me what you think, if it sucks I want to know.
I copied and pasted this directly from Google docs, so the formatting may get funky in some places.
------
Glassy Ground
There were just five minutes left until sunrise, A-39 would have been unaware of this critical piece of information if the artificial intelligence in his helmet failed to remind him. His survival suit had become saturated with the sweat generated by miles of hiking, gripping his body particularly tight around the neck, wrist, and ankles. While it was uncomfortable, it at least assured him the atmospheric pressure and oxygen within the suit was being well contained. A-39 hated these long hikes, yet they were necessary for survival. His bunker was lacking in supplies, however an abandoned military complex not too far away has more than enough for sustenance. A-39 thought about moving there on several occasions, though, anyone with him would not survive the journey, they barely survive just lying in bed after all.
Just as a sliver of sunlight began to appear over the horizon, the artificial intelligence gave an ominous one minute warning, which to anyone familiar with the environment, interpreted it as a goodbye. A substance made of carbon, that somehow survived yesterday’s inferno almost instantly burst into a glorious blaze. The tint of A-39’s visor distorted the color of the fire, though as much as he would like to enjoy the show, he began a full sprint back to the bunker and the fire’s beauty was unappreciated. Weighed down by medicine, food, and water, A-39 made it back with only seconds to spare.
“Goddam A-39! If you didn’t come back in time I’d be sure to kick your sorry ass in hell!” a voice coughed out from the infirmary, which was located down the main hall and to the left, across from the kitchen. It would normally be impossible to discern the owner of the voice with the survival suit on, however there weren’t many potential owners. A-39 and the voice’s owner were the only one’s left. Coughing and wheezing echoed down the hallway as A-39 sorted through the supplies he scavenged. The dark green hue of the lights in the bunker made seeing into the bag of loot difficult, yet A-39 liked them, for they served as a way to retain nearly extinct memories of a different world. After sifting through the contents, A-39 took off his survival suit and hung it in a closet that could hold twenty survival suits, yet A-39’s was the only resident. He began preparing a can of soup in the kitchen, which after disassembling many appliances to use the parts for repairs and makeshift tools, consisted of nothing more than a hot plate, a small fridge, and a faucet without a sink.
“What’s going to be for dinner, A-39?” The voice struggled to ask.
“Some soup,” A-39 quietly responded. “I’ll add some vitamins so that you will-”
“What’s going to be for dinner?” The voice yelled. Clearly it did not hear A-39’s timid response.
“Some soup!” A-39 yelled across the hall.
“Again? Goddam that’s all we ever have! Q-2751 was able to get more variety!”
“That’s true, but sadly he wasn’t all that fast,” A-39 replied coldly, ceasing all responses from the voice. Apart from the sound of the solar winds raging outside, the bunker was filled with a chilling silence. The two of them ate quietly and when they were finished, A-39 cleaned up and sat on the metal floor as he sifted through more of the things he collected during his nightly scavenging session. The silence was interrupted by more coughing and wheezing from futile attempts to begin speaking.
“Hey A-39, I’m going to say good morning to you now, I think I’m going to fall asleep early today,” the voice was able mutter.
“Alright,” A-39 replied. “I’ll be awake for a bit longer to change the filter on the water recycler.” He said while inspecting a pack of cigarettes, watching the green light glimmer off the reflective SMOKING KILLS warning.
“A-39, I really don’t care what you do, just go out and get what we need when the sun goes down. You’re not my friend, you’re my property. Remember that, and don’t go too sleep to late in the morning.” The voice from the infirmary replied, before having another coughing fit. A-39 remained silent and threw the pack of cigarettes aside with the other things he collected, confident that he could find some use for it in the future. A-39 then stood up and walked to the communications console, sat down in front of the interface, and opened up the extranet. He hasn’t actually been able to go online in years, but he can access saved audio files, particularly an extranet radio station that played classical music. Echoes by Pink Floyd was the first tune from antiquity that played. One could tell it was an archaic piece, as one part of the song features whale like noises. A-39 thought back to when he actually needed to ask what a whale was.
“E-923?” A young A-39 began.
“Yeah, cousin?” The older E-923, replied. She was a fairly tall girl with dark hair, as far as A-39 remembered. E-923 appeared very healthy despite the squalid conditions the two of them lived in at the time. Chances are, they weren’t actually cousins, but in their position, it was a common practice to turn friends into family. Time has erased the memory of her face, but A-39 remembers how the other children constantly pestered her if the “E” in her designation was meant to stand for ears. Her ears weren’t that much larger than normal, though children tend to find amusement in anything, especially after a long day of work.
“This music, why are there so many weird noises?” A-39 inquired.
“Well, I can’t say for certain since I’m really no expert on classical music, but my mother used to say they were whales or something like that. E-923 tried to explain.
“Whales? Like, what are they, I mean what are they?” A-39 childishly pestered.
“Ya know those gorges and valleys that just go on endlessly? The ones that make ya feel like you’re on top of a mountain when you are really at a normal level? Well, according to a history book I once swiped, those were full of water! And in it were all sorts of animals and they could even breath underwater. Wouldn’t that be awe-”
“But what about the wholes?”
“Whales, with an ‘A’, like the one in ya designation. They were really big and breathed air just like us, except they could hold their breath forever!”
“Really? How?” A-39 asked.
“I’ll tell ya everything I know about them okay? But I’m going to need to shut the song off first and hide the music player. Ya know, just incase a watcher comes by, hears us talking, tells us to shut up and takes our music player away.”
A-39 awoke at sundown and prepared for the new night. There was soft wheezing from the infirmary, assuming the infirmary’s inhabitant has yet to wake up, A-39 carefully put on his survival suit, went to the airlock, and walked out the bunker. He transitioned from the adamantium foundation outside the bunker to the shimmering glass that replaced the soil long ago. It cracked and shattered like ice as A-39 walked across it’s surface. The moon was full and bright, allowing A-39 to see his reflection on the ground, or at least the reflection of the survival suit that obscured his body and masked his face. The only mirror in the bunker shattered sometime ago, meaning the only image of himself A-39 has seen in years was this vaguely humanoid figure. One night he never moved more than three feet away from the bunker. He just stood there, staring at the suit’s reflection, wondering where the man inside of it was, wondering if the man could be found.
That night, A-39 decided to go elsewhere. According to maps in the old military compound, the remains of a Salvation Shipyards launch facility was nearby. He walked across the glassy plains, which were incredible stark, incredibly lonely. Occasionally a remnant of the old world would appear on the horizon. The empty husk of a starship lay dismembered on the ground like a decaying animal carcass, twisted strands of metal that were once a great skyscraper, pedestals without the statues they once supported. A-39 was clearly near the remains of a large city, yet it did not show up on his map, which suggest that it was a pre-war city. A city that was scorched and razed by man centuries before A-39 was born, before the sun could contribute to the inferno.
In time, the old Salvation Shipyards facility became visible, part of it’s concrete outer wall remained, with a bleached sign posted on it that read;
CHOSEN ONES AND SALVATION SHIPYARD PERSONNEL ONLY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE TERMINATED WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE
THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING
Chosen Ones, a term that made A-39 want to spit in disgust. Were he not wearing his suit, he probably would have. He remembers when they were still looking for these blessed individuals. About two decades ago, an ominous black hover-truck pulled up in front of his old master’s compound. Three men stepped out, ordered A-39 and the others with him to form a line, and took blood samples from each of them. He remembers how the three men barely spoke, but when they did, it was some crap about finding the most pure of people, whatever that means. Suffice to say, A-39 was not deemed pure, and was left behind, along with the majority of the population.
A-39 carelessly passed through a crumbled hole in the wall, and was immediately met with the sight of the launch towers. There were dozens of them, though most were weathered down, with only the bottom portions of the launch towers remaining, like tree stumps left to decompose. A few stood tall, though were well aged. However, one launch tower appeared almost unscathed, it even harbored a ship that never managed to escape this place. The massive behemoth was clearly a mining ship, and judging by it’s size, it was a Solar Exhumer, one of many that were built, yet may be the only one remaining. In an ironic twist of fate, a machine dedicated to exploiting the sun, was now damned to be roasted by it everyday. Though at night, it appeared cold, with it’s decorative plating weathered by the solar winds. Lonely, with nothing but itself to speak to. Cheated, doomed from birth, never once having a chance to leave this realm and make something of itself. Yet, at the same time, it appeared proud. The only thing standing for miles, and given the circumstances, was in incredible condition. If it didn’t require a crew of thousands to operate, A-39 would of flew away himself. It survived as the world around it perished.
The moon was already at the top of the sky, A-39 realized he spent half the night walking to Salvation Shipyards, and would need the other half to walk back. He gave one final look at the Solar Exhumer, turned around, and headed home. Normally, A-39 would be disappointed with this trip, the bag he carried his findings in was completely empty. Yet it felt heavier, as though he found all kinds of riches. It was heavier yet didn’t increase in weight, so A-39 was able to keep his usual brisk pace, and made it back to the bunker with approximately five minutes to spare.
“I’m back.” A-39 muttered as he entered the bunker through the airlock. There was nothing but silence. The condescending voice from the infirmary didn’t echo through the hall.
“I’m back!” A-39 said louder, assuming the voice’s owner did not hear him. Again, silence. Perplexed, A-39 slowly walked to the infirmary. The only noise was the sounds of his foot steps, the wrinkling of his survival suit, and the crescendo of superheated, fiery wind outside that corresponded with the rising of the sun. A-39 entered the infirmary, there was nobody but himself, several beds, and medical equipment. The contents of the infirmary appeared new and completely unused. An outsider would insist it never had a single patient. A-39 then went into the kitchen prepared some food, did his usual morning rituals, and went to sleep. The next night, he went to Salvation Shipyards to search for supplies.
So I had to write a short story for English while (loosely) mimicking some of J.D. Salingers writing style, so there are things in here I would normally write differently. We could set the story in any time period so I was like "firetruck yeah science fiction time". So I wrote this. I think it's pretty decent, definitely not anything amazing but I tried.
Tell me what you think, if it sucks I want to know.
I copied and pasted this directly from Google docs, so the formatting may get funky in some places.
------
Glassy Ground
There were just five minutes left until sunrise, A-39 would have been unaware of this critical piece of information if the artificial intelligence in his helmet failed to remind him. His survival suit had become saturated with the sweat generated by miles of hiking, gripping his body particularly tight around the neck, wrist, and ankles. While it was uncomfortable, it at least assured him the atmospheric pressure and oxygen within the suit was being well contained. A-39 hated these long hikes, yet they were necessary for survival. His bunker was lacking in supplies, however an abandoned military complex not too far away has more than enough for sustenance. A-39 thought about moving there on several occasions, though, anyone with him would not survive the journey, they barely survive just lying in bed after all.
Just as a sliver of sunlight began to appear over the horizon, the artificial intelligence gave an ominous one minute warning, which to anyone familiar with the environment, interpreted it as a goodbye. A substance made of carbon, that somehow survived yesterday’s inferno almost instantly burst into a glorious blaze. The tint of A-39’s visor distorted the color of the fire, though as much as he would like to enjoy the show, he began a full sprint back to the bunker and the fire’s beauty was unappreciated. Weighed down by medicine, food, and water, A-39 made it back with only seconds to spare.
“Goddam A-39! If you didn’t come back in time I’d be sure to kick your sorry ass in hell!” a voice coughed out from the infirmary, which was located down the main hall and to the left, across from the kitchen. It would normally be impossible to discern the owner of the voice with the survival suit on, however there weren’t many potential owners. A-39 and the voice’s owner were the only one’s left. Coughing and wheezing echoed down the hallway as A-39 sorted through the supplies he scavenged. The dark green hue of the lights in the bunker made seeing into the bag of loot difficult, yet A-39 liked them, for they served as a way to retain nearly extinct memories of a different world. After sifting through the contents, A-39 took off his survival suit and hung it in a closet that could hold twenty survival suits, yet A-39’s was the only resident. He began preparing a can of soup in the kitchen, which after disassembling many appliances to use the parts for repairs and makeshift tools, consisted of nothing more than a hot plate, a small fridge, and a faucet without a sink.
“What’s going to be for dinner, A-39?” The voice struggled to ask.
“Some soup,” A-39 quietly responded. “I’ll add some vitamins so that you will-”
“What’s going to be for dinner?” The voice yelled. Clearly it did not hear A-39’s timid response.
“Some soup!” A-39 yelled across the hall.
“Again? Goddam that’s all we ever have! Q-2751 was able to get more variety!”
“That’s true, but sadly he wasn’t all that fast,” A-39 replied coldly, ceasing all responses from the voice. Apart from the sound of the solar winds raging outside, the bunker was filled with a chilling silence. The two of them ate quietly and when they were finished, A-39 cleaned up and sat on the metal floor as he sifted through more of the things he collected during his nightly scavenging session. The silence was interrupted by more coughing and wheezing from futile attempts to begin speaking.
“Hey A-39, I’m going to say good morning to you now, I think I’m going to fall asleep early today,” the voice was able mutter.
“Alright,” A-39 replied. “I’ll be awake for a bit longer to change the filter on the water recycler.” He said while inspecting a pack of cigarettes, watching the green light glimmer off the reflective SMOKING KILLS warning.
“A-39, I really don’t care what you do, just go out and get what we need when the sun goes down. You’re not my friend, you’re my property. Remember that, and don’t go too sleep to late in the morning.” The voice from the infirmary replied, before having another coughing fit. A-39 remained silent and threw the pack of cigarettes aside with the other things he collected, confident that he could find some use for it in the future. A-39 then stood up and walked to the communications console, sat down in front of the interface, and opened up the extranet. He hasn’t actually been able to go online in years, but he can access saved audio files, particularly an extranet radio station that played classical music. Echoes by Pink Floyd was the first tune from antiquity that played. One could tell it was an archaic piece, as one part of the song features whale like noises. A-39 thought back to when he actually needed to ask what a whale was.
“E-923?” A young A-39 began.
“Yeah, cousin?” The older E-923, replied. She was a fairly tall girl with dark hair, as far as A-39 remembered. E-923 appeared very healthy despite the squalid conditions the two of them lived in at the time. Chances are, they weren’t actually cousins, but in their position, it was a common practice to turn friends into family. Time has erased the memory of her face, but A-39 remembers how the other children constantly pestered her if the “E” in her designation was meant to stand for ears. Her ears weren’t that much larger than normal, though children tend to find amusement in anything, especially after a long day of work.
“This music, why are there so many weird noises?” A-39 inquired.
“Well, I can’t say for certain since I’m really no expert on classical music, but my mother used to say they were whales or something like that. E-923 tried to explain.
“Whales? Like, what are they, I mean what are they?” A-39 childishly pestered.
“Ya know those gorges and valleys that just go on endlessly? The ones that make ya feel like you’re on top of a mountain when you are really at a normal level? Well, according to a history book I once swiped, those were full of water! And in it were all sorts of animals and they could even breath underwater. Wouldn’t that be awe-”
“But what about the wholes?”
“Whales, with an ‘A’, like the one in ya designation. They were really big and breathed air just like us, except they could hold their breath forever!”
“Really? How?” A-39 asked.
“I’ll tell ya everything I know about them okay? But I’m going to need to shut the song off first and hide the music player. Ya know, just incase a watcher comes by, hears us talking, tells us to shut up and takes our music player away.”
A-39 awoke at sundown and prepared for the new night. There was soft wheezing from the infirmary, assuming the infirmary’s inhabitant has yet to wake up, A-39 carefully put on his survival suit, went to the airlock, and walked out the bunker. He transitioned from the adamantium foundation outside the bunker to the shimmering glass that replaced the soil long ago. It cracked and shattered like ice as A-39 walked across it’s surface. The moon was full and bright, allowing A-39 to see his reflection on the ground, or at least the reflection of the survival suit that obscured his body and masked his face. The only mirror in the bunker shattered sometime ago, meaning the only image of himself A-39 has seen in years was this vaguely humanoid figure. One night he never moved more than three feet away from the bunker. He just stood there, staring at the suit’s reflection, wondering where the man inside of it was, wondering if the man could be found.
That night, A-39 decided to go elsewhere. According to maps in the old military compound, the remains of a Salvation Shipyards launch facility was nearby. He walked across the glassy plains, which were incredible stark, incredibly lonely. Occasionally a remnant of the old world would appear on the horizon. The empty husk of a starship lay dismembered on the ground like a decaying animal carcass, twisted strands of metal that were once a great skyscraper, pedestals without the statues they once supported. A-39 was clearly near the remains of a large city, yet it did not show up on his map, which suggest that it was a pre-war city. A city that was scorched and razed by man centuries before A-39 was born, before the sun could contribute to the inferno.
In time, the old Salvation Shipyards facility became visible, part of it’s concrete outer wall remained, with a bleached sign posted on it that read;
CHOSEN ONES AND SALVATION SHIPYARD PERSONNEL ONLY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE TERMINATED WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE
THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING
Chosen Ones, a term that made A-39 want to spit in disgust. Were he not wearing his suit, he probably would have. He remembers when they were still looking for these blessed individuals. About two decades ago, an ominous black hover-truck pulled up in front of his old master’s compound. Three men stepped out, ordered A-39 and the others with him to form a line, and took blood samples from each of them. He remembers how the three men barely spoke, but when they did, it was some crap about finding the most pure of people, whatever that means. Suffice to say, A-39 was not deemed pure, and was left behind, along with the majority of the population.
A-39 carelessly passed through a crumbled hole in the wall, and was immediately met with the sight of the launch towers. There were dozens of them, though most were weathered down, with only the bottom portions of the launch towers remaining, like tree stumps left to decompose. A few stood tall, though were well aged. However, one launch tower appeared almost unscathed, it even harbored a ship that never managed to escape this place. The massive behemoth was clearly a mining ship, and judging by it’s size, it was a Solar Exhumer, one of many that were built, yet may be the only one remaining. In an ironic twist of fate, a machine dedicated to exploiting the sun, was now damned to be roasted by it everyday. Though at night, it appeared cold, with it’s decorative plating weathered by the solar winds. Lonely, with nothing but itself to speak to. Cheated, doomed from birth, never once having a chance to leave this realm and make something of itself. Yet, at the same time, it appeared proud. The only thing standing for miles, and given the circumstances, was in incredible condition. If it didn’t require a crew of thousands to operate, A-39 would of flew away himself. It survived as the world around it perished.
The moon was already at the top of the sky, A-39 realized he spent half the night walking to Salvation Shipyards, and would need the other half to walk back. He gave one final look at the Solar Exhumer, turned around, and headed home. Normally, A-39 would be disappointed with this trip, the bag he carried his findings in was completely empty. Yet it felt heavier, as though he found all kinds of riches. It was heavier yet didn’t increase in weight, so A-39 was able to keep his usual brisk pace, and made it back to the bunker with approximately five minutes to spare.
“I’m back.” A-39 muttered as he entered the bunker through the airlock. There was nothing but silence. The condescending voice from the infirmary didn’t echo through the hall.
“I’m back!” A-39 said louder, assuming the voice’s owner did not hear him. Again, silence. Perplexed, A-39 slowly walked to the infirmary. The only noise was the sounds of his foot steps, the wrinkling of his survival suit, and the crescendo of superheated, fiery wind outside that corresponded with the rising of the sun. A-39 entered the infirmary, there was nobody but himself, several beds, and medical equipment. The contents of the infirmary appeared new and completely unused. An outsider would insist it never had a single patient. A-39 then went into the kitchen prepared some food, did his usual morning rituals, and went to sleep. The next night, he went to Salvation Shipyards to search for supplies.
He did not return to the bunker.