There was a lonely planet - a rocky and barren desert wasteland, cut into the universe like a rock carving. An eternal reminder of things lost for future generations. The air was pure, and the scent of the fresh rain still hung on the air like a forgotten memory of the silent pattering of rain against dust which had not occurred in weeks. Somehow, the cleanliness and solitude of the place was not only quiet, but oppressive, as if the silence of the whispering winds and the harsh glare of the sun was not a planet anymore, but a prison. The land was littered with jagged boulders and rugged valleys. It was quiet.
There was a lonely planet. A rocky and barren wasteland that had not changed in a thousand years, cut into the universe like a carving, a memorial for future generations. The air was pure, and there was no scent, but somehow the cleanliness and solitude of the place was oppressive, as if the silence of the whispering winds and the harsh glare of the sun had become a prison. The land was littered with jagged boulders and deep valleys. It was quiet.
A teenage boy stepped over the rocks, making his way down the lonely plains. Destination? It didn't matter. Everything was the same anyway. He cut an odd figure against the landscape - a bright red beanie with blue jeans and a green shirt promoting ecological sustainability against the dead browns and greys of the wasteland.
He sighed heavily. Some days, his solitude could seem a blessing. The desert, in its harsh majesty, would become a humongous playground. The dullness became richness in the endless mazes of rock as he skipped past the trees and vultures feeding on carrion, yelling and singing to the top of his lungs. On the best days, he felt as if the mountains, the buzzards and the dead trees were his friends. He understood them and spoke to them. There was a connection there. He understood the land as well as he understood himself, and the land understood him. It provided for him in the meat of wild livestock and fresh water, and the fruit of the trees. He was the only human left, and the land, for all the welcome it never displayed to others, loved him like a son.
But today was different. Today, he stood on the hill, and his eyes watered. Everything blurred - He was alone, and his time was limited. Why? He wondered. Where? What? How?
“Who am I!?” He yelled into the distance, “What am I for?!”
There was no reply, save the whispering of the wind and the cawing of the birds of prey in the distance. The landscape, for all it loved him, could not tell him why it kept him alive, when it killed so many others. He sat down, tears streaking down his face. He was thirsty. Almost too thirsty for where he was. He stood up, and continued on his journey, hoping to find water. But the trickling of the river eluded him. Wherever it was, it was not here, and he was alone and thirsty, and his landscape could not provide what it did not have. He dragged himself slowly along the plains, and the playground was no longer a playground – it was a prison.
He stumbled, slowly. He was parched - dust and ash was in his throat and he was choking, coughing. He needed water. Something to clean out his insides, make him feel alive again, but it was nowhere to be found. He had wondered into death. The land had finally grown tired of him - he was not a son, but a toy. A distraction that was no longer needed and now the sand threatened to overwhelm him.
He collapsed. The vultures began to circle.
He lay still.
Bit long-winded and annoying without a plot but it was fun to write so I thought I would share it. It's not really very coherent. Constructive feedback appreciated even if I don't find time to reply to it.
:/
Interesting piece, but I have no idea where you are going with it.
Neither.
I'll start it off then. Just one point:
[quote=you]silence of the whispering winds and the harsh glare of the sun had become a prison[/quote]
Sometimes less is more when it comes to scene-setting. Try re-writing a few times, cutting each sentence down to the bare minimum of words, but so that it still makes a point. Then add maybe one or two colourful descriptors to stress the point. As long as you know exactly what you're trying to say while you're writing it, no words should be wasted.
[quote=you also]There was a lonely planet. A rocky and barren wasteland that had not changed in a thousand years, cut into the universe like a carving, a memorial for future generations.[/quote]
If you labour your points like this, there's a risk you'll come across as hysterical, like you do here.
Also, you contradict yourself a few times. Is the planet barren or are there animals and fruit-bearing trees everywhere? Why does the boy suddenly die after apparently living alone for thousands of years? etc.
Read a few short stories (Carver or someone similar) and just re-write over and over until it makes perfect sense in your head.
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