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:icondodgingthebeat: More from DodgingTheBeat

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October 29, 2012
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Do you think we'll get a last song?

I'm not sure.  This diary I'm writing in is full of holes.  It's sopping like a wet sponge.  It reeks, but what doesn't in the filth and the mess?

Storm's passing.  Not like I've ever seen here.  Even the explosive storms of my youth; running in the fields, the junkyards, the rust-ravaged train tracks of old wasn't quite like this.  

Something's exploded against the skyline.  Orange is reflecting off the glass; the spider-striped, near shattered glass I kicked two weeks ago while mowing the grass.

It might be the gas works.  Or the chemical sheds.  Weyrdstorms do this, you know.  That's what the warnings said.  Electricity and chaos and hellish atomic confusion mixed into an atmospheric slurry and let to rage.  I ask the question because music's the one thing I'm yearning for right now.  It settles me, helps me think.  Always has, though keeping my sister's sniveling furthest from my head might be an ulterior motive.

Do I think I'm escaping this place alive?  Not sure; my heart's trying to tug up my head full of figures.  No off switch in a head such as mine, more's the pity.  The tendrils of pure force will crush this place, this house full of creaking baseboards and tougher, fonder memories.  Then the creatures will come.  First the shambling wrecks of the storm, the ones the Army's been mentioning in the flyers.  I'm worried about the ones that come after.  The rain-coated family men with their shovels and weasel words.  No lie is too great with the demands of a young life, sandwiched between Red Cross blankets and the ruins and the horrors.  Nothing deserves that fate, I'll admit.  But I'm not going to hold my head up high when that world of mud and timber and ashfault and the slapdash helicopter's silhouette themselves against the pounding rain.  

There's not much to do but sit.  Mom's away.  Dad's in the corner.  

Do I want a last song?  Will it anchor my sweaty mortal form to the shifting, uncanny ground?

Probably not.  But there's an infusion of beauty in the notes between chords and words and atmospheres constructed in ignorance of any storm.

There's a beauty to it all.  

A rhythmn.

My hands are fumbling the record.

God I'm cold.  Flip it.

Written after reading of the weather reports on the Atlantic Coast- best of wishes, folks.

This is post-apocalyptic/speculative fiction after a fashion.

This is also the first piece I have EVER handwritten. EVER. This is a direct copy from my notebook.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-02-18
From the suggester: "the writing and force of description leave nothing to be desired" in The Last Song by ~DodgingTheBeat. ( Suggested by xlntwtch and Featured by neurotype )
Karinta Jun 26, 2013  Student General Artist
Wow..... I like it a lot. One quibble - "rhythmn"> rhythm.
Really captures tht "interrupted last diary entry" feel and mood.
Thank you!
Eloquent and disturbing.
JamminJo Feb 18, 2013   Photographer
Sensational Work of Art :love:

Congratulations on your DD Feature :)
JamminJo Feb 18, 2013   Photographer
You are very welcome :)
Love-Strength Feb 18, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
This is very powerful, how the main character contemplates whether or not he will be recognized in the dystopia he lives in. The well written layout of the story only adds to the emotion and despair. Wonderful job my friend ^.^
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