Cory Swanson
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- May 19, 2016
- Messages
- 453
I've been struggling over this one. This is the first little bit of a full story about 77K long. I like the atmosphere I've set but I don't know if I'm giving enough information up front or whether it draws the reader in or alienates them. It is literally the first thing I ever wrote, but have reworked it a couple of times.
As this is my first submission on the critiques, I subject myself to the whims of the wolves. Have at it:
Perhaps our journey began when it felt as if the world was ending. When thousands watched the skies at the moment the millennium began, expecting hellfire and Armageddon. When, instead, the cold January skies kept their steely grayness and carried on just as before. Just as they always had before.
Perhaps we did not know the kinds of hellfire that truly would begin to rain in the coming years. The hellfire of impending decay for a humanity that was only beginning to come to grips with the limitations of its imagination.
Perhaps our journey began earlier, at the dawn of the rise of the great nations. The moment that the flash lit the sky and scorched the earth and we as a species knew collectively that we could never go back. Perhaps the root of all this began in that moment of great evil blinking out of existence and, like fish feeding in a pool, new evils swarmed to occupy that niche. Into the vacuum left by departing fascism flooded the evils of nuclear arms races that gave birth to rockets that could fly to the moon and the sinister need for more and more oil until it choked us and the need sweltered and simmered. And as the earth turned into a giant reverse still, sucking the fresh water from the ground and the sky and dumping it salty and full of fecal sludge into the seas, we prayed for the mercy of another flash in the sky but never saw it coming when it finally came.
And oh, this is a long and lonely journey, hurtling through space, our only salvation the relative emptiness and solitude of our course through the blackness that assures that we never will be be sucked into the births and deaths of stars and galaxies. And oh, how we love our little rock hurtling between rocks. This ship we ride feels and looks so much like Earth itself. It is rocky, our feet stick to the ground, there is air to breathe and pools of water to drink from. Earth itself is sullied by our existence and we, therefore, ride this ship and spread like a virus to another. Only when we have so contaminated our host do we fly like spores to our newest source. Though we can hardly be the ones blamed. We are not the first to arrive on Mars. We may, however, be the first ones to let our grandchildren die there.
As I look into the mirror in the bathroom and contemplate our fate and the origins of mankind's desire to wander from planet to planet, I am filled with self loathing. My dark hair is messy, my face is plump, and the bags under my eyes betray my relative youth. The grey hairs beginning to sprout on my chin and on my head tell the story of stress, uncertainty, and anxiety that have been the hallmark of my thirty two years alive. Am I good enough, smart enough, and disciplined enough to pull off the task that is before me? Can I effectively sift through all of this information and data to divine the origin story of my people? I shake off this thought and run the water over my face. I do not have the luxury of self doubt. I will only be on this ship for a few more months, then we head down to the ground and the real fun begins. When this comes to pass, I will not likely have much time for research and this impending break in productivity horrifies me. I must now return to my work.
There are stories in the archive about the floral awakening. Perhaps the sight of the Chinese riding their own rockets to space and beyond fueled the American desire to begin anew. Getting men in space was not so hard anymore. But to live there would be the key.
I am ahead of myself.
As this is my first submission on the critiques, I subject myself to the whims of the wolves. Have at it:
Perhaps our journey began when it felt as if the world was ending. When thousands watched the skies at the moment the millennium began, expecting hellfire and Armageddon. When, instead, the cold January skies kept their steely grayness and carried on just as before. Just as they always had before.
Perhaps we did not know the kinds of hellfire that truly would begin to rain in the coming years. The hellfire of impending decay for a humanity that was only beginning to come to grips with the limitations of its imagination.
Perhaps our journey began earlier, at the dawn of the rise of the great nations. The moment that the flash lit the sky and scorched the earth and we as a species knew collectively that we could never go back. Perhaps the root of all this began in that moment of great evil blinking out of existence and, like fish feeding in a pool, new evils swarmed to occupy that niche. Into the vacuum left by departing fascism flooded the evils of nuclear arms races that gave birth to rockets that could fly to the moon and the sinister need for more and more oil until it choked us and the need sweltered and simmered. And as the earth turned into a giant reverse still, sucking the fresh water from the ground and the sky and dumping it salty and full of fecal sludge into the seas, we prayed for the mercy of another flash in the sky but never saw it coming when it finally came.
And oh, this is a long and lonely journey, hurtling through space, our only salvation the relative emptiness and solitude of our course through the blackness that assures that we never will be be sucked into the births and deaths of stars and galaxies. And oh, how we love our little rock hurtling between rocks. This ship we ride feels and looks so much like Earth itself. It is rocky, our feet stick to the ground, there is air to breathe and pools of water to drink from. Earth itself is sullied by our existence and we, therefore, ride this ship and spread like a virus to another. Only when we have so contaminated our host do we fly like spores to our newest source. Though we can hardly be the ones blamed. We are not the first to arrive on Mars. We may, however, be the first ones to let our grandchildren die there.
As I look into the mirror in the bathroom and contemplate our fate and the origins of mankind's desire to wander from planet to planet, I am filled with self loathing. My dark hair is messy, my face is plump, and the bags under my eyes betray my relative youth. The grey hairs beginning to sprout on my chin and on my head tell the story of stress, uncertainty, and anxiety that have been the hallmark of my thirty two years alive. Am I good enough, smart enough, and disciplined enough to pull off the task that is before me? Can I effectively sift through all of this information and data to divine the origin story of my people? I shake off this thought and run the water over my face. I do not have the luxury of self doubt. I will only be on this ship for a few more months, then we head down to the ground and the real fun begins. When this comes to pass, I will not likely have much time for research and this impending break in productivity horrifies me. I must now return to my work.
There are stories in the archive about the floral awakening. Perhaps the sight of the Chinese riding their own rockets to space and beyond fueled the American desire to begin anew. Getting men in space was not so hard anymore. But to live there would be the key.
I am ahead of myself.
