Good bye, I say; it was too good to be real... Well, nothing is so bad. At least I've got new comp and now I forgot all my problems, playing in it. Heh, I almost forgot what does it mean - hours and hours of sweet play. No problems, no thoughts - only comp game and it's world, created by one's mind. Lovely, I say. Real life can be really harsh sometimes, but comp can give you something intersting. Neverwinter nights's world belong to me now HAHA... Ok, closer to the matter - this is my short story. It is my contribution into the great altar of FO. It's not so great - I have no time now and feel the call of the game, but I can use at least one hour of free time for storywriting. It can be funny sometimes too...Old days
Old ghoul was siting and smoking calmly. Years was running near him, great heros and villians alike were passing near his small house, but he didn't care. Life - it was the only important thing for him. He was siting on the chair all days along and was watching after life, running around him. Curse of the prolonged life didn't hurt him much. Burnt flesh and nasty insects were not the worst part of it. To live and remember every minute of his past life and live in his present life, scavanging, begging robbing... He remembered great times, when he was young, when he was normal - earth was green and beatiful. A whole life belonged to him... and now. Ghoul sighed deeply and looked around. His small house with dirty, wooden walls and half-rotten roof was his all belonging. He had nothing else - money, food, water, weaponry... All local would-be heroes or somple thugs took everything valuable long time ago. Only his old cracked body and this cursed house remained there. Rude, hand-made bad, chair with two legs, broken table full of dust and junk. It was his riches. Ghoul stood up slowly from this tricky chair, which was going to fall every minute and left his house.
The Wasteland... miles and miles of lifeless desert. One could find only plenty of thugs and problems there. No signs of water or common folk - life was something useless there. No merchants or heroes or some other wierd guys wanted to travel in this parts. There were no towns or mines. One could say that this desert was one of the worsest deserts in the world, but who could know for sure? Anyway, ghoul liked this place - thugs and criminals, cannibals or madmen - he saw it everywhere and it didn't frighten him so much. He could live everywhere and nobody care about him. The only reason why he was living there was his memories... It was his home. And it even didn't change much since all that shit happened. He was a young boy, when bombs began to fall... Sometimes by night he heard the cries of his family, consumed by fire... he saw their black arms, trying to reach cold body... his cold body. He was dead by that time. Long dead by some stange desease, which origins were lost in time. Though he was dead, he heard and saw everyting. He saw as he was taken away from his parents and brothers, he saw what they were doing with him... It was so strange, that he couldn't believe that it was real. Ghoul thought that it was only the side effect of his current state. This strange long life, this burnt skin... when he woke up the stuff was changed already. He was lying in ruins of the destroyed building. Hot sand and strong wind was hurting his limbs. First of all he thought that he was in hell and that his blasted life is finally over. But he was wrong. It looked like that his soul was cursed to exist forever in this devasted ruins of the past...
The past... An old ghoul remembered it clearly, though most of his kind forgot about it. In the first years of his life he tried to be advanturer, to save or rebuilt the world, but than he understood the something. It was useless, hopeless, senseless. Wherever he went he saw only misery and suffer, in every step of his life he was watching after the deseases and evil stuff. He tried to changed it, he fought for justice and good. He was travelling in very heart of the grim deserts to finish some criminals or save some poor fellas. He became quite famous - hero, goody ghoul, super ghoul... people began to make him made. Their constant problems and complains, their weak frighten blabing... One day all was over - one poor fella, killed accidently by him finished all his deeds. To tell the truth he was not so sorry about it. He saw enough of the present world and understood it's rules. Kill or be killed - there were nothing else...
Ghoul smiled thinking about his past heroic deeds and spited to the floor. His present life was much less heroic. Endless days was runing one after another and he had to watch after it. He had nothing else to do, so he hid in this hut far from any signs of the civilisation. The lower plains was running in all sides from his hut. There were nothing except sand there. Blue sky with no clouds at all was hanging heavyly upon his head, pushing by it's endless depth. Ghoul didn't like to leave his hut. He felt himself uncomfortable there, like fish, who left water. He sighed and returned to the house. It was dark and hot in it, large number of blood-sucking insects greeted him happily, but he didn't care about it. He used to it long time ago. It was another pleasant thing of post-nuclear life. The wasteland was running by it's hot, dsuty reaches in the small window in the back wall, giving the only source of light in this house. Hot sunrays was dancing on the earthy floor and broken stuff of the old house. Ghoul sat and began to smoke again. It was difficult to get good cigares in this blasted wasteland, but shitty stuff could be got easily or be grown on it's own. Strange mutating plants were growing in all possible sides of the wasteland. Ghoul closed his eyes and remembered his first life. The life, when he was living without fear or starvation; the life when he hadn't drink his own blood or blood of desert rats, because it was hard enough to get water in waterless desert... His life...
It was so long ago. He was living in the tribe of some strange folks, called indians. This deserts were thier ancestral home and nobody wanted to get this useless territories in that time. Nothing have changed since 2077. Though one thing have changed - their desert grew a little. He was living in their small world and didn't care about what was happening all around. Sometimes he was trading cheap or handmade jewelry with tourists for cigarets or fire water(booze), but mostly he tired to keep his nose clear from all this stuff. He lived, he laughed, he wanted to be happy. But somebody didn't want the same stuff. The people all around became nervous... very nervous. Some strange stuff began to happen. Lifeless desert began to change from it's core. Even his own people began to feel it - something was going to happen. Thier shaman didn't hear the call of the dead, the spirits didn't grant them rain for many seasons... Sun was burning hardly, wind was so strong sometimes, that he could crush the huts or common people. The whole village was burried by sand one day...
Not so long ago before the end he decided to visit civilisated folks. Large cities, a lot of people and problems. Young boy didn't see so much people in his whole life. It was very... strange experince. It looked like that this place, where he was, was dead. There were no signs of nature. Not a tree and grass were seen there - black carpet of the road, shining metal cars, roaming quietly, large crowds of people... Well, he found two good things in this "cities" - cigarets and alcohole. Pleasant stuff, but very expensive one...
Ghoul sighed and sat again to his chair, trying not to fall. Rude, handmade cigare was smoking in his hand. It's nasty smoke was roaming freely in air of his dark hut. Mutated tabaco gained rather strange smell and taste. Only few insect were able to survive this dread stuff... Ghoul was thinking about an old days, watching after the days, running near him. His present life was beyond him...
The end
Strange story as always. No story line, no persons... heh, I like my story.
