The Wasteland. My fan fiction

[fedaykin]

I looked around and didn't find too much fan fiction so I decided to start a little story and see if anyone finds this interesting. I am going to post this in short episodes which I will keep writing if this gets any attention.

This isn't going to be an action-filled adventure, so if you're looking for that - too bad. The story is not going to be continuous, I plan to digress to introduce other characters, such as a little girl whose best friend is a mutant. My interest lies in the daily life of normal wasteland folks, their thoughts, their motivation, their situation. I will probably focus on people from one town.

If you have read this, please do post some kind of feedback or suggestions.

____

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire [...]

- T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

THE WASTELAND

Part 1

"Balls balls balls balls balls of steel," he thought, lying on the mattress, clutching his groin with his left hand, his eyes closed, yet ears perceptive. He tightened his grasp, feeling no bulge, nothing but the rough texture of his camo pants. He opened his eyes and looked at the crumbling walls of the building. A particularly large gap in one of them now served as a second doorway, which he used every time he came to this barren city. Perhaps he even did it on purpose - it was there and nobody would come to repair it, so why should he, a grown man of 37 (he was completely sure of this, took pride in it and furiously resisted any argument to the contrary), not use it as he saw fit? Why should he not go where he desired in this land?

The wind whistled as it moved through one window and out the gap and he listened to it, saying to himself and the dead city around him: "Can you hear the wasteland sing, can you?". And maybe this was why he came here every once in a while, though many years ago one would have wondered why on earth somebody would come to a city, of all places, to get away. There was no hustle and bustle of city life now, only a struggle for life which, if abandoned even for a moment, would mean succumbing to the wastes, becoming one of the countless skeletons that dotted the land, sitting in chairs, lying in beds or wrapped in tar paper or in ditches or at the bottom of the few bodies of water that remained, thinking solemnly about what had happened.

The man stood up, looked around, and having made sure that nothing has changed (although it never did in this place), picked up his already packed backpack and prepared to leave. He had decided not to have breakfast. It was a several mile walk through the city and he didn't expect anything but the high rise buildings to witness his passing. Mile after mile of rubble, dust and dark-coloured walls, and when the wind wasn't singing the silence was deathly.

 

[Pirengle]

I looked around and didn't find too much fan fiction so I decided to start a little story and see if anyone finds this interesting. I am going to post this in short episodes which I will keep writing if this gets any attention.

It's great that you're writing something as experimental as Eliot. Yet I can replace all the wasteland references with other settings and it's no longer Fallout fanfiction.

This might just be me, but my definition of fanfic is a story that relates to its origin subject in some way, directly or indirectly. You don't have to tell the story of The Chosen One vs. Frank Horrigan, that's true. I'd appreciate knowing how this little chunk relates to Fallout in general, that's all.

 

[Lord Elden]

It's post-apocalyptic? And as it was only a short glimpse more might come...

I liked the writing style anyway.

 

[fedaykin]

It's great that you're writing something as experimental as Eliot.

Not really that experimental. I try to keep it more accessible. I definitely have been influenced by modernists, but I think there's no sense in just emulating every characteristic of their style.

Yet I can replace all the wasteland references with other settings and it's no longer Fallout fanfiction.

This might just be me, but my definition of fanfic is a story that relates to its origin subject in some way, directly or indirectly. You don't have to tell the story of The Chosen One vs. Frank Horrigan, that's true. I'd appreciate knowing how this little chunk relates to Fallout in general, that's all.

I prefer a looser treatment, so, yes, this may not directly fit into the Fallout history. Then again, I may make it fit. Wait and see. It is in the Fallout world and that's enough for now.

Thanks for the feedback, Lord Elden and Pirengle.

 

[fedaykin]

Here we go. Faulkner readers will find some familiar themes:

THE WASTELAND

Part 2

"Hello, Benjy." Caddy said. She opened the gate and came in and stooped down. Caddy smelled like leaves. "Did you come to meet me." she said. "Did you come to meet Caddy. ..."

- William Faulkner "The Sound and the Fury"

"You look over there and I'll look over here, OK?"
"Mhmmh."
"Do you remember who walked next to the wall, me or you?"
"Mmmhmm."
"Do you remember? Come on, help me look, you're not looking."
The two of them squatted, the little one carefully looking at the ground in front of her, occasionally sifting through the dirt with her hands. The big one was mainly squatting, his gaze moved from the wall to the little girl and back. She sighed.
"Come on, you're not helping. We need to find that cap so I can go to the show tonight. There's gonna be a man who can fart with his hands, and better yet, he can play songs. He can play anything the tape recorder plays."
"Show yesh."
"Hmm. We came from behind the corner and I didn't take it out yet. Then we stood to watch the caravans pass and I took it out to play with it. I must've missed my pocket when I put it back, 'cos it's not in the house. It has to be here somewhere."
"Here here."
"You found it? Oh no, that's a stone. No, throw it away."
"PRUDENCE!" a loud female voice exclaimed from inside the more or less intact building.
"We have to find it now or someone else might, while we're having dinner. The Compson boys play here sometimes. You have bigger hands, put 'em on the ground and do like this." She moved the giant's hands in sweeping motions across the dirt.
"PRUDENCE!"
"She calling Prudy eat."
"I know. We need to find it first."
"Prudence, you know I'll eat your portion myself if you don't come right this minute."
"All right, let's eat quick and then look for it."
Two passers-by watched as they entered the battered house. The creature three times the size of the girl, with greenish, uneven skin and large pimples around the nose, walking alongside a fragile companion who guided him by holding his hand, or rather putting her small hand into his deep, wide palm. Yet the giant's hand did not crush it, as if it was actually a sponge.

The people looked and saw, but did not comprehend, though the creature had been living here almost since the girl was born. It had come out of nowhere and remained nothing - for it had no mind to speak of - but it seemed like no other on this scorched earth could be imagined as her fellow, her friend.