Story: Hana
I sat down at my writing desk and heard the rough scratch of my pen against the page accompanied by the sound of a tuneful melody flowing its way around the room. My head was down, not breaking eye contact with the ink blotches on the paper, trying to block out any sound of the outside world. My mind was consumed with contemplation, troubled by the decision of what words should flow from my hand. Writing is my heart and soul. It takes you to a place, good or bad, dark or light. Some would call it pretty. I wouldn’t. Writing isn’t pretty, it’s art. Art makes you feel something. And so I let my imagine take over and watched as the art laid itself out on the page in front of me, and I wrote a story.
***
In a world of chaos, there was a man. Not young, but not old. He had no name, not to other people. That’s not what they were worried about. Names and faces were meaningless. They were more concerned with trying to survive. The sky wasn’t blue nor black, it was a smokey grey as flames of what were once homes rose towards it. It seemed as if grey was the only colour occupying this mayhem. People were running wild, much like hens when they catch sight of a fox. The man dodged around others making his way to the one house that wasn’t burnt to a crisp, and slipped his way through, almost being trampled in the process. He reached the large door of this antique house that had somehow managed to survive, and struggled to wedge the door open. He wandered in with a strange lack of urgency, and closed the door behind him letting the screams from outside become muffled to a mere whisper, layered by soft music playing. He concluded that he may be safer upstairs, and so glided up the steps with the symphony growing louder, and into the closest room. Straight away, he saw it, the one thing that amidst all the chaos, still could not be missed. A soulless shell hanging from the ceiling. The man recoiled slightly as a whisper of breath escaped between his lips. Beneath the person’s hanging limbs and in front of a toppled stool, stood a writing desk. On the surface was a letter addressed to nobody at all. The man hastily reached towards it, averting his eyes from the drooping body hanging above him. He delicately opened the sealed envelope and read the words that were softly scrolled across the paper. His eyes slowly scanned over the letters, paying deep attention to each word, each syllable. The distance between his eyelids grew with every word along with his horror and slight fascination. The letter had fulfilled its purpose, messily signed by the writer – ‘JS Fox’. How hopeless must have this person felt to have given up when he may have still had a chance? The man’s head dropped, empathy and disappointment coursed through his veins. The song abruptly stopped playing through the small radio sat on the desk, and the man’s head snapped towards it. Funny how you don’t notice something until it’s gone.
The letter fluttered to the ground and footsteps lead towards the top of the staircase. The man looked out at the door as it was being rammed from the outside. People were trying to get in, trying to find safety, just like he was. However, he wouldn’t have been safe much longer. Any second now, bodies would swarm in like a tidal wave. The man slowly made his way back to the room where the corpse hung, finding no reason to rush. It was hopeless, he knew what was coming. He closed the door behind him and propped up the stool, taking a seat. He calmed his breathing, enjoying his last few moments of peace. He heard as the door flung open and screams rioted throughout the house. He sighed, and turned his head to watch the door, waiting.
***
This was my story. I felt at peace with the world, ironically. My final piece of work, and I was content with it. I glanced at the chandelier above my head before rising from my seat. I walked to the window to inspect what was left of the world outside. Not much at all. The sky was gone and it was replaced with smoke. Oh beautiful world, what have you come to? I watched as the people ran away from what was all around them. I sighed and watched them aimlessly tire themselves. I made my way back to my desk and picked up my pen for one last time, signing my name.
‘JS Fox’.
***
In a world of chaos, there was a man. Not young, but not old. He had no name, not to other people. That’s not what they were worried about. Names and faces were meaningless. They were more concerned with trying to survive. The sky wasn’t blue nor black, it was a smokey grey as flames of what were once homes rose towards it. It seemed as if grey was the only colour occupying this mayhem. People were running wild, much like hens when they catch sight of a fox. The man dodged around others making his way to the one house that wasn’t burnt to a crisp, and slipped his way through, almost being trampled in the process. He reached the large door of this antique house that had somehow managed to survive, and struggled to wedge the door open. He wandered in with a strange lack of urgency, and closed the door behind him letting the screams from outside become muffled to a mere whisper, layered by soft music playing. He concluded that he may be safer upstairs, and so glided up the steps with the symphony growing louder, and into the closest room. Straight away, he saw it, the one thing that amidst all the chaos, still could not be missed. A soulless shell hanging from the ceiling. The man recoiled slightly as a whisper of breath escaped between his lips. Beneath the person’s hanging limbs and in front of a toppled stool, stood a writing desk. On the surface was a letter addressed to nobody at all. The man hastily reached towards it, averting his eyes from the drooping body hanging above him. He delicately opened the sealed envelope and read the words that were softly scrolled across the paper. His eyes slowly scanned over the letters, paying deep attention to each word, each syllable. The distance between his eyelids grew with every word along with his horror and slight fascination. The letter had fulfilled its purpose, messily signed by the writer – ‘JS Fox’. How hopeless must have this person felt to have given up when he may have still had a chance? The man’s head dropped, empathy and disappointment coursed through his veins. The song abruptly stopped playing through the small radio sat on the desk, and the man’s head snapped towards it. Funny how you don’t notice something until it’s gone.
The letter fluttered to the ground and footsteps lead towards the top of the staircase. The man looked out at the door as it was being rammed from the outside. People were trying to get in, trying to find safety, just like he was. However, he wouldn’t have been safe much longer. Any second now, bodies would swarm in like a tidal wave. The man slowly made his way back to the room where the corpse hung, finding no reason to rush. It was hopeless, he knew what was coming. He closed the door behind him and propped up the stool, taking a seat. He calmed his breathing, enjoying his last few moments of peace. He heard as the door flung open and screams rioted throughout the house. He sighed, and turned his head to watch the door, waiting.
***
This was my story. I felt at peace with the world, ironically. My final piece of work, and I was content with it. I glanced at the chandelier above my head before rising from my seat. I walked to the window to inspect what was left of the world outside. Not much at all. The sky was gone and it was replaced with smoke. Oh beautiful world, what have you come to? I watched as the people ran away from what was all around them. I sighed and watched them aimlessly tire themselves. I made my way back to my desk and picked up my pen for one last time, signing my name.
‘JS Fox’.