Actually, yeah. It's a series of short stories entirely of my own creation titled "TALES FROM THE WASTELAND".
I'm currently writing the first two now, the first one, which will be titled "The Road", will be about a group of survivors who meet up along the way through the different journey's that fate takes them, and ultimately after hearing a rumor about the "town that survived the apocalypse" in Maine, they decide to embark on an (almost) nationwide journey across the mainland United States from Arizona to Maine. Rumors have spread everywhere of the almost mythological town that is supposedly able to grow crops with little to no extra effort than what was required before the war, has a seemingly unending supply of fresh water, and supposedly it's inhabitants are carrying on (as close as possible) as if the war never even happened, isolated from the rest of the world. The story will undertake multiple issues, possibly between five to ten, with each issue covering a leg of their journey across the United States in their search for post-apocalyptic America's own Pillars of Iram/Ubar, the Atlantis of the Wasteland. I've come close to completing the first issue, "Long Road Ahead".
Second story will be only a single issue short story, entitled "What Remains", and will feature the journey of a emotionally-broken man (partially inspired by the Survivalist of F:NV) and a young girl whom he "adopted" upon finding her approximately eight years after the war, and took under his wing for safety. She is a sixteen year old girl who represents naivety and innocence, while he is a 30-something year old man who represents cynicism, nihilism, and is all together the pinnacle representation of a man who's soul and will have been broken down entirely. I'll show you guys a part I wrote for "What Remains".
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.
I would like to point out that the universe within the TALES FROM THE WASTELAND short is entirely different from that of Fallout and Wasteland, and is in no way connected to those games, lore wise, fan fiction wise, or canon wise (though subtle references may be dropped).
