As smoke billows up through the broken rooftop of a dilapidated building, two figures in worn and rugged clothing huddle around the small fire fueled by burning books. A young girl sits to the left of the hastily made campfire inside the destroyed building, pale white, yet dirty skin, her raven black hair scattered and unmade. Though she by her appearance she couldn't be older than seventeen, she holds the experience of a hard wrought life in her jaded green eyes. She stares deeply into the crackling fire, wearing a saddened, yet optimistic look on her face. Perhaps even the harsh realities of this world aren't enough to shatter the innocent naivety of a young girl who refuses to let go of hope.
Horizontally across from her on the opposite site of the withering flames sits a man in his late thirties, with a scruffy yet somewhat groomed beard showing the occasional white whisker among the field of small dark brown hairs. He slowly takes small sips out of an old, slightly rusted liquor canteen. Perhaps the polar opposite of his young companion, there is no hope or joy behind this mans eyes, but rather pain and sorrow. If any hope is to be found in this mans heart, it is of a forlorn nature, and not something of which he puts much, if any, stock into. The only solace to be found for this man lies at the bottom of his flask. He sits by the fire in his worn and old black light trenchcoat duster, his eyes staring off into the distance through the broken walls of the building as if he can see something far off that nobody else could. With each sip of his flask brings to him a new memory, and with each memory, bottled regret.
As he tosses a fresh book into the fire, she lifts her eyes from the consuming flames to focus on him. To her, he is many things. Protector, guardian, friend.... father-figure. She knows he carries with him much emotional pain, a weight so great she often contemplates how he is even still alive with such a great burden weighing down upon his shoulders. Though he protects her in the unforgiving wasteland, she likes to think she looks after him in her own way. And perhaps she is right. But even still he remains an enigma to her.
His eyes move from the far distance to scan over her light skinned face. Looking back at him, she offers him a light hearted smile, and upon showing slightly weathered, but still whitened teeth in her grin, his eyes dart away back to whatever memory he had originally lost himself in. He sat, in an almost self-induced catatonic state as his mind explored past days of another time. A better time. Before he had lost everything he loved. It is the only thing that brings peace to his scarred soul, but such a thing is not without drawbacks. For him, revisiting old memories is akin to taking in the sweet draft of a distant wild rose upon cool rushing winds, however the thorn is the pain of the memory. Thus is his dilemma, is it worth it to see those you love once more knowing that in doing so you would also have to see those you love die all over again? This is the payment that is exacted upon those who indulge in the intoxicating warmth of reliving memories, for joy and sorrow walk hand in hand with the past.
Man I can't way till this is finished. If you do get a good publisher it'd also be a good idea to release some hard copies too. I honestly think the hard copies would last longer than a digital copy. Also, if Fallout: A post-nucleat Apocalyptic novel is successful. Will you write Fallout 2? And would go under a different name like "Rise of the Enclave"?
