Fiction: The New
Jan. 5th, 2015 11:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: The New
World: other
Word count: 550
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Thimbleful Thursday: out with the old, in with the new
Notes: This is set in the same world as December's Patreon story, but about ten years previous, as this is the beginning of the apocalypse. I'm probably going to end up calling this world Wild Magic unless I come up with something Tamora Pierce didn't already use.
In his eyes in his ears in his nose—
The world was breaking apart. Right down the middle. A flash of light and a weed tree growing right through the building—
Tasting vision, hearing smell. Walking the goal. Suddenly the silence, but never the silence, never again silence.
He stood on the sidewalk shaking, his feet running in place. Others stood on the sidewalk staring at him, staring at the building. A man ran out of the building and promptly melted, a puddle between one step and the next.
He shook and shook. He took his phone out of his pocket and tried to call his wife. His fingers shook but then the phone was shaking too, in tandem with him, and he managed to press the button.
Before she could answer the phone exploded in a gentle shower of red-and-white sparks. Some of them flew off in the form of butterflies.
Her voice stayed with the butterflies. “Hello? Hello? John, is that you? What’s going on?”
Then the butterflies flew away and her voice was gone, gone forever.
His voice was gone, too. He tried to speak, and nothing came out of his mouth but a diamond.
A woman ran down the street, her hair turned to tentacles, groping at her shoulders and back. She ran from the tentacles, tried to escape them, but they were her.
He fell to his knees, still shaking, his feet unable to stay still. He spoke again and more stones fell from his tongue: agate, chrysoprase, emerald, fluorite, rose quartz, hematite, seven round garnets.
His stomach heaved. Round, grey, brown, white river rocks, smoothed with age. They tumbled onto the pavement, piling up, covering the pretty stones, piling up and up over his hands and his head and his body.
Somewhere close, a child wailed and screamed for its mother. Its voice spiraled up and up until it was song, glory, morning, the ending of all.
--
Alphonse knew there must be survivors. Somewhere in the world, the destruction hadn’t come, hadn’t twisted people and buildings and plants and the world. But right here, where it had, there must be a few people still alive and whole like him, and he would find someone else, and he wouldn’t be alone.
He stepped onto an empty street. A building had been broken entirely in half by a gigantic plant, and the street was bare—of both vehicles and asphalt, as though the asphalt had turned to water and borne the cars away along with it. It probably had.
In the middle of the sidewalk stood a little girl, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands balled into fists. She was the only human being on the street and she was alive. Alphonse breathed a sigh of relief.
He hurried to her. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Are you okay? Do you know what happened?”
She opened her eyes just a sliver. “I want my mommy!”
Alphonse swallowed. Her mom was probably dead. Just like everyone else—all the adults. Maybe it was just because they were both under eighteen, and when the bluebird had flown away with his hand, he hadn’t been as afraid as his mother had.
“We’ll find her. It’ll be okay.”
With the hand he still had, he took hers.
Thanks for reading this story! If you enjoyed it, visit my main page for all stories I've posted at Dreamwidth. You can also pledge at my Patreon for exclusive patron-only stories and prompt posts.
World: other
Word count: 550
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Thimbleful Thursday: out with the old, in with the new
Notes: This is set in the same world as December's Patreon story, but about ten years previous, as this is the beginning of the apocalypse. I'm probably going to end up calling this world Wild Magic unless I come up with something Tamora Pierce didn't already use.
In his eyes in his ears in his nose—
The world was breaking apart. Right down the middle. A flash of light and a weed tree growing right through the building—
Tasting vision, hearing smell. Walking the goal. Suddenly the silence, but never the silence, never again silence.
He stood on the sidewalk shaking, his feet running in place. Others stood on the sidewalk staring at him, staring at the building. A man ran out of the building and promptly melted, a puddle between one step and the next.
He shook and shook. He took his phone out of his pocket and tried to call his wife. His fingers shook but then the phone was shaking too, in tandem with him, and he managed to press the button.
Before she could answer the phone exploded in a gentle shower of red-and-white sparks. Some of them flew off in the form of butterflies.
Her voice stayed with the butterflies. “Hello? Hello? John, is that you? What’s going on?”
Then the butterflies flew away and her voice was gone, gone forever.
His voice was gone, too. He tried to speak, and nothing came out of his mouth but a diamond.
A woman ran down the street, her hair turned to tentacles, groping at her shoulders and back. She ran from the tentacles, tried to escape them, but they were her.
He fell to his knees, still shaking, his feet unable to stay still. He spoke again and more stones fell from his tongue: agate, chrysoprase, emerald, fluorite, rose quartz, hematite, seven round garnets.
His stomach heaved. Round, grey, brown, white river rocks, smoothed with age. They tumbled onto the pavement, piling up, covering the pretty stones, piling up and up over his hands and his head and his body.
Somewhere close, a child wailed and screamed for its mother. Its voice spiraled up and up until it was song, glory, morning, the ending of all.
--
Alphonse knew there must be survivors. Somewhere in the world, the destruction hadn’t come, hadn’t twisted people and buildings and plants and the world. But right here, where it had, there must be a few people still alive and whole like him, and he would find someone else, and he wouldn’t be alone.
He stepped onto an empty street. A building had been broken entirely in half by a gigantic plant, and the street was bare—of both vehicles and asphalt, as though the asphalt had turned to water and borne the cars away along with it. It probably had.
In the middle of the sidewalk stood a little girl, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands balled into fists. She was the only human being on the street and she was alive. Alphonse breathed a sigh of relief.
He hurried to her. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Are you okay? Do you know what happened?”
She opened her eyes just a sliver. “I want my mommy!”
Alphonse swallowed. Her mom was probably dead. Just like everyone else—all the adults. Maybe it was just because they were both under eighteen, and when the bluebird had flown away with his hand, he hadn’t been as afraid as his mother had.
“We’ll find her. It’ll be okay.”
With the hand he still had, he took hers.
Thanks for reading this story! If you enjoyed it, visit my main page for all stories I've posted at Dreamwidth. You can also pledge at my Patreon for exclusive patron-only stories and prompt posts.