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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Cinder Clocks
The end of the line. Literally. Abruptly. Finally and other such two-dollar words that end in ‘ly.’
The cinder blocks that the line runs right into look fresh. Fresher than the drywall and peeling paint on the walls, at least. There are cracks in the mortar. Chips in the concrete barrier. A stain. Or maybe a scorch mark.
Hard to tell in the poor light from the one flickering florescent overhead.
End of the line in more ways than one maybe. Perhaps some other poor soul had wandered in, enticed by that flickering light, and found their personal end right here where the trail stops in a hastily constructed barrier. Back down the hallway leads the line. Yellow paint that’s just as faded and peeling in places as the green on the walls. It lead somewhere, once. Now it was just a mockery, a false hope in a world gone wrong. It leads out, maybe, but no one wants out. No one wants what’s out there.
It’s what inside that’s desireable. Whatever survived. Whatever can be used to survive just a little bit longer.
Whatever it is is past the concrete. Past the barrier. Maybe even beyond the pale, if you subscribe to the tales elders tell themselves at night to ward off the cold and present. Whatever is beyond the barrier may be in the past. From the before.
It wouldn’t take much. Some C-4. A stick of dynamite in the right place and the whole wall would come right down. But that could ruin the whatever from whenever. Stuff is delicate, time worn. Dusty. Liable to break as soon as the cherry ’s popped on this place.
Was this place the end of the line back when too? A final holdout? A safe haven in the firestorm? Did they have time to gather supplies? Did they save themselves? It’s nice to hope they did. Nicer to hope they entombed themselves. Works out better that way. No one to argue the spoils. No one to resist. No one with needs greater than your own.
The place is quiet as a tomb. None of the machines run. Nothing beeps, or whirs, or buzzes. Can’t hear the outside this deep inside. This far down, where the yellow line leads, in the bowels of the huge building beyond the light of day. Nothing moves now. All is quiet except the occasional visitor, following that little strip of paint down the stairs, through the halls until they reach the end.
Grave robbing isn’t nobel, but it could be the difference between living and dying. Of course, this would require a bit more than shovel and few minutes of sweat under the sun. Was it worth it? Was it right? Would it be better to leave those that built this wall alone and go after easier targets? Rats were plentiful and nutritious. Tasty, if you have a few other ingredients. But they couldn’t compare to an MRE or some old fashioned canned meat. There might even be candy, still in the wrapper, waiting on the end of time before spoiling.
Hmmm...chocolate.
That was worth a stick of strategically placed long fuse dynamite and grit in your hair. A taste of the past, or enough to barter a proper bed. Maybe there were medical supplies, or tools, batteries, or even ammo. That would keep you fed. Keep you alive, if for just a little longer in this hard world. Maybe make things a little better until you reach the end of the final line.
Back to the corner, under that flickering overhead. The line reaches out in both directions. The way back to the sunlight you’ve known and into the darkness of the unknown ahead. The past calls from both ends. The past you come from. Personal. The past the world has left behind long ago. Impersonal. It’s a choice. Go back, go forward.
The choice is made. Sparks fly from the rusty lighter. Time to see what’s pass the end of the line.
The cinder blocks that the line runs right into look fresh. Fresher than the drywall and peeling paint on the walls, at least. There are cracks in the mortar. Chips in the concrete barrier. A stain. Or maybe a scorch mark.
Hard to tell in the poor light from the one flickering florescent overhead.
End of the line in more ways than one maybe. Perhaps some other poor soul had wandered in, enticed by that flickering light, and found their personal end right here where the trail stops in a hastily constructed barrier. Back down the hallway leads the line. Yellow paint that’s just as faded and peeling in places as the green on the walls. It lead somewhere, once. Now it was just a mockery, a false hope in a world gone wrong. It leads out, maybe, but no one wants out. No one wants what’s out there.
It’s what inside that’s desireable. Whatever survived. Whatever can be used to survive just a little bit longer.
Whatever it is is past the concrete. Past the barrier. Maybe even beyond the pale, if you subscribe to the tales elders tell themselves at night to ward off the cold and present. Whatever is beyond the barrier may be in the past. From the before.
It wouldn’t take much. Some C-4. A stick of dynamite in the right place and the whole wall would come right down. But that could ruin the whatever from whenever. Stuff is delicate, time worn. Dusty. Liable to break as soon as the cherry ’s popped on this place.
Was this place the end of the line back when too? A final holdout? A safe haven in the firestorm? Did they have time to gather supplies? Did they save themselves? It’s nice to hope they did. Nicer to hope they entombed themselves. Works out better that way. No one to argue the spoils. No one to resist. No one with needs greater than your own.
The place is quiet as a tomb. None of the machines run. Nothing beeps, or whirs, or buzzes. Can’t hear the outside this deep inside. This far down, where the yellow line leads, in the bowels of the huge building beyond the light of day. Nothing moves now. All is quiet except the occasional visitor, following that little strip of paint down the stairs, through the halls until they reach the end.
Grave robbing isn’t nobel, but it could be the difference between living and dying. Of course, this would require a bit more than shovel and few minutes of sweat under the sun. Was it worth it? Was it right? Would it be better to leave those that built this wall alone and go after easier targets? Rats were plentiful and nutritious. Tasty, if you have a few other ingredients. But they couldn’t compare to an MRE or some old fashioned canned meat. There might even be candy, still in the wrapper, waiting on the end of time before spoiling.
Hmmm...chocolate.
That was worth a stick of strategically placed long fuse dynamite and grit in your hair. A taste of the past, or enough to barter a proper bed. Maybe there were medical supplies, or tools, batteries, or even ammo. That would keep you fed. Keep you alive, if for just a little longer in this hard world. Maybe make things a little better until you reach the end of the final line.
Back to the corner, under that flickering overhead. The line reaches out in both directions. The way back to the sunlight you’ve known and into the darkness of the unknown ahead. The past calls from both ends. The past you come from. Personal. The past the world has left behind long ago. Impersonal. It’s a choice. Go back, go forward.
The choice is made. Sparks fly from the rusty lighter. Time to see what’s pass the end of the line.