Writing Prompt
Writings
Writings
VISUAL PROMPT
by Taton Moise @Unsplash
As your protagonist walks through the ruins of their home city, they begin to regret the decisions they made that led them here...
Writings
Never in a million years did I think that simply loving another person could result in the total destruction of the only home I’d ever known. Falling in love with the wrong person had felt so easy, so… right. But as I made my way down Main Street, weaving between the piles of rubble that once composed my city, my childhood home, my place of birth, I knew in my heart that it had always been wrong. After all, how could something right have so many consequences?
I’d been so selfish, so dead set on having what I wanted that I hadn’t stopped to think. There was a reason we didn’t associate with the enemy, and I knew it- the hatred ran too deep. From the first moment I locked eyes with him, I felt an impending doom deep in my bones. No, I didn’t understand the magnitude of that doom, but I still knew it was coming. I’d said something along those lines to him once. We were lying in bed, tangled up in each other in the quiet dark.
“I think this is going to end badly,” I said softly. I felt him shift slightly beneath me. “Don’t say things like that,” he replied, squeezing my elbow. “I’m sorry. I just… I have this gut feeling. And honestly, it scares the shit out of me.” “Shh, there’s nothing to fear. I’m right here with you, and you are safe. Together, we are safe. Together, everything is all right.”
It’s been fifteen years. Fifteen years, four months and twelve days to be exact. And yet, this place still smells exactly the same. Salt from the sea, ash from the fire, and a metallic tang hangs in the air. The whole journey here, I tried to convince myself that returning would bring me closure. That it would allow me to move on from that fateful day. Now, as I stand in the rubble that was once the bustling market in the middle of town, I know that I was wrong. I should have stayed away. Not that I had much of a choice.
At first, I was ecstatic to finally find another survivor of ‘The Shoreville Disaster’, that’s what the country called it. The years had been much kinder to him. I listened enraptured as he recounted how his path crossed with a traveling merchant as he fled the fires. How he was able to rapidly build a booming trade convoy under the tutelage of his adoptive master. When he asked me my story, I tactfully left out how I had fallen in with one of the many criminal organizations that polluted the underbelly of the capitol. Instead, I focused on my slow rise from guard to foot soldier, to my current position as a mercenary. Not quite as glamorous as his life, but I get by.
It wasn’t until we met for a dinner at his estate a few days later that he revealed the true nature of our meeting. Apparently, he already knew of me and my current line of work. He wanted to hire me for a retrieval mission. He wanted me to go… back there. After that point, the conversation was a blur. Descriptions of what he wanted me to find. Possible locations in the town where it would have wound up. And my fee. We settled on an incredibly generous number, more than I could possibly refuse.
I shake off the memories and try to focus on the task at hand. I start to sort through the rubble of the first possible location as I question whether this was really worth it. Even beyond the money, making a high-level connection like him is a huge opportunity for future contracts. Occasionally as I dig I stop to cast a simple location charm. I’ve never been super proficient in magic, but I’ve picked up a handful of tricks along the way.
As I move from location to location, I realize why he sought me out. The destruction of the town was so thorough that without prior knowledge of the layout it would be impossible to pinpoint any one location. The day stretches on, and my sense of dread slowly increases. I had intentionally ordered the locations to search to avoid having to go near the Eastern District. To avoid going near the epicenter of where it all happened.
The metallic scent grows the closer I get. My stomach turns, knowing that I’ll probably wind up having to get right into the thick of it. The last few locations are deep in the Eastern District. As I round a corner, I see it. The main road gives me a clear line of sight straight to the crater that replaced the handful of homes that were right in the path of the obelisk that wrought Shoreville’s end. The walls of the crater are too high to see inside, but the flickering lights emanating from it bounce off the temporary structures the townsfolk set up in an attempt to contain it.
No one is really sure where it came from. The crater seems to imply that it fell from the sky. But the people that were closest to it swear that the ground sunk around it, revealing the black obelisk. Those that lived in its immediate vicinity were rightfully wary, especially those whose homes had been destroyed. It was almost a week before anyone noticed what was happening. But by then it was too late.
It started simple. Strange fluxes in magical energies around the town. Easy enough to write off. Soon though, pets started disappearing. Then some children. It wasn’t until debris started moving toward the obelisk on its own that people realized what was happening. It was hungry.
The attractive forces got stronger and stronger. By the time that the capitol city finally sent a group of mages to assist, the obelisk was strong enough to rip objects from people’s hands if they got too close. Building were starting to lean and crumble under the forces. All down into the crater, to be absorbed by the obelisk, never to be seen again.
The containment field the mages set up still seems to be in place, because I don’t feel the forces that used to draw things inward. Unfortunately, the containment field was plan B. Their first thought to handle this thing was to destroy it. That’s when we learned that it could feel more than hunger. We made it mad.
I shudder, pushing the memories of that night from my mind. I pick up the pace, searching more ruins before finally finding what I had been sent here to search. A scroll case, made of skymetal and covered in protective runes. I wasn’t told what was inside, and I didn’t ask. That’s the first thing you learn as a mercenary. Only ask for enough details to be able to complete the job.
Despite the sun being mostly set, I push myself to make as much distance as possible before setting up camp. I’d rather set my tent up in the dark than have to see what used to be my home on the horizon. As I finally close my eyes, I plan all the ways I will spend my fee to drown and numb the pain.
It was silent as she wandered through the streets of Cileria. Too silent for her liking, actually. The battle was over, no one fought anymore and even though she and her allies won and got control of the legendary ruby crown she couldn’t celebrate with the others within the ruins of the tavern. Not here, not in this place where she spent the happiest years of her life. As she turns left the women passes her old academy. Just hours ago it was filled with life and the laughter of the students completing their education. Now you can barely even call it an academy anymore, some parts from the wall are gone through the explosions the elietes caused in some places whole rooms are missing. It feels haunted and empty at the same time without the teenagers, gods know where they are now. Most of them fought too but especially the first years had little to no chance to win against the fully grown & educated elites, so one supposes you’ll find many of them within the piles of bodies laying outside the city next to the graveyards. She feels guilty thinking of them, had she just made more of an effort to get to know them more, to her they would never be just corpses laying around who gave their lives for her ideology. As she walks on her eyes are drawn to all the well known places who shaped her as a little girl. The shop of the old women who used to give her the little candies whenever she walked by, the then colourful frontage is all monochrome now because of the dust flowing through the air. The always blooming trees from the park look trist and sad without their glorious buds. She inhales sharply as she spots a way to familiar house which is way to destroyed to actually call it a house anymore. But it used to be her everything. She opens the garden door which through some kind of miracle survived the hefty fights and steps into the front yard. Silent tears run down her face as she watches the ruins of what once was her _home. _ It was here where it all started, talking to her parents about the injustice happening. Here she raged to her friends about how much better the elites had it. Here they started to form their revolution, but most importantly here she first met him. She fondly remembers the exact day it was but thinking about it feels like slicing herself open with a blade, now that he is gone. Crouching in front of the flower patch where once grew beautiful roses she sobs like watering the earth with her tears would bring the thorny flowers back. A little voice enters her head, softly it seems to murmur one sentence over and over: _What would life be better if you hadn’t started to think about overthrowing the king. _
Getting louder and louder each time she starts to believe the little voice, and she hates it. It was all her fault, all these dead people and destroyed buildings. All. her. fault.
Aleila shoved the rubble aside. The shattered blue doors made her heart sink. It was gone. All of it. The hurricane had destroyed nearly everything, and it was her fault. It was Aleila’s job to keep the ocean at bay, and she had failed. Percy was still following her around like a puppy who was lost. She was mad at him, and she hated that. It wasn’t his fault, she was the one who’d accepted. The Nèréds would be mad. She would lose her position, and then she would have to leave. Fate would determine what could go wrong. Destiny would determine what could go right. And truth would sit silently in the corner, knowing what would happen.
“Aleila!” Percy yelled behind her. She turned, tears in her eyes. “Aleila what’s going on?” He said. She just turned, knowing she couldn’t tell him. “Please go, Percy.” She hugged herself with her arms. “Listen, I have lifeguard training in a minute. Where do you want me to meet you?” Aleila turned angrily. “I don’t-“ she stopped short when she saw his face. After a moment's silence, she said “The beach, 8:00 pm. Don’t be late if you want to know the truth.” Percy nodded determinedly. He walked over and hugged her. “You’re not alone Alei, you have people who love you. You need to talk.” He released her from the hug and kissed her on the forehead before leaving.
The air was thick with the smell of ash, a bitter tang that clung to the back of the throat and left a taste like regret. The city, or what remained of it, lay stretched before Jackal like a corpse beneath a gray shroud of smoke. Buildings leaned against one another, their steel ribs exposed, their windows gaping like blind eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a fire still crackled, a stubborn ember refusing to surrender. The sound was faint, a whisper compared to the symphony of destruction that had played here not too long ago. He stepped over a crumpled streetlamp, its bulb shattered, its post bent at a pitiful angle, as if it had tried to hold up the sky and failed. Each step was a negotiation with the debris - the bones of the city - though he wasn't sure why he bothered. No one else was left to hear his careful tread. The streets were empty of people, save for the ghosts that clung to the corners of his mind, asking questions he couldn't answer.
How did it come to this?
Jackal knew how. The memories were still fresh, raw as an open wound. He remembered the crowds, their faces bright with hope, looking to him for salvation. A speech was made, lofty yet meaningless words about change, justice, and a brighter future. And for a time, the world listened. For a time, it seemed as if the path they had chosen - cutting through compromise, dismantling the old way brick by brick - was the right one. But ideals are fragile things, easily shattered when held too tightly. It had started with small choices, the kind you justify in the moment. A bridge burned here, a line crossed there. Necessary evils, he called them, though the words tasted sour even then. Necessary for what? he wondered now, staring at the jagged skeletons of skyscrapers that scraped weakly at the gray heavens.
Jackal reached what had once been a playground. The swing set stood intact, as if mocking the rest of the ruin. Its chains swayed gently in the breeze, a sound like a child's laughter, faint and eerie. He hesitated, feeling the weight of the silence pressing against his ears, and looked down at the ground. There, half-buried in soot and rubble, was a child's shoe, bright red against the monochrome world. He knelt and picked it up, holding it as if it were made of glass.
"This wasn't what I wanted," he whispered to the empty city. His voice broke the quiet, but was quickly swallowed again.
Wasn't it, though? The question lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy. He had wanted change, yes, but had he not wanted power, too? Power to shape the world into his image, to silence dissent, to force the world to be better - by his definition of "better." Somewhere along the way, the line between idealism and hubris had blurred, and he had chosen to stop looking for it.
Jackal dropped the shoe. It landed with a soft thud, sending up a small puff of ash. He straightened and continued walking, though there was no destination in mind. The city was a labyrinth of wreckage, and he its sole navigator. He passed a burned-out bookstore, its charred pages scattered across the sidewalk like fallen leaves. One page caught his eye - a fragment of a story, its ink smeared but legible: "And so the hero fell, not from the blade of their enemy, but from the weight of their own deeds."
He tore his eyes away, the words searing into his mind like an accusation.
What had he believed he was saving back then? A society worth preserving? A people who deserved a second chance? Or was it something smaller, more selfish? The ruins offered no answers, only twisted reflections. As he continued to walk, he realized that he wasn't just regretting the decisions he had made. He was regretting the person he had become while making them.
The fire in the distance flared briefly, sending up a plume of sparks into the grayness above. It reminded him of a phoenix, but no rebirth was coming here. No ashes would give rise to wings. The city would remain as it was - a monument to his failure. And still, he walked, one foot in front of the other, because stopping would mean admitting it was truly over. He didn't know what he was searching for - redemption, forgiveness, or simply the courage to face himself. But for now, all he had was the road ahead, stretching through the ruins like a scar.
I thought I had chosen correctly. I read the right things, talked to many different people with many different views and I considered every aspect of both sides. In the end, I felt 100% comfortable with my choice. I realize now that my decision has helped facilitate this complete and total destruction of my beloved country. In all my research I never investigated the possibility that my choice would not be prepared in the event of a nuclear attack. And now I feel so deeply regretful. Would the other side have handled it better? I don’t know. For now I’ll keep walking with the hope of finding another survivor. If I do, we won’t discuss politics.
I hate it here. I should never have come home. This place is the worst and it brings out the worst in me. Seeing it in this condition, after having been away so long, it just makes me feel worse. Garbage lines the streets. The homeless are fighting each other and shouting; I keep my distance as I make my way. I half recognize the chatter of voices, and the guy I see turn a corner looks like someone I went to school with. I turn up my coat collar and walk faster. The bomb hit here two years ago. The fallout has cleared and it’s technically safe to be here. But everyone who could leave is gone, with those remaining the poorest of the poor. My parents are among that number. “Gerald!” My mother exclaims as she opens the door. I’m embraced warmly, and my father claps me on the shoulder. “We thought we’d never see you again.” I shake my head. “I know, it’s been too long. I want to get you out of here.” My mother stares into my eyes and takes my hand. I try not to see the veins lining every inch of her face, the scales of skin sloughing off. “We’re fine here, Gerald, you worry too much. Come in, sit down.” I sit in my father’s easy chair and they take the sofa. “I have a place for you now; you’ll be safer there.” “Tell us about the outside world. Is it nicer out there than it is here?” I look away. “There are nice parts, in places, a few trees. I have a source for clean water, that’s the most important thing.” My father clears his throat. “We boil all our water, Gerry, you know that. It’s fine! Perfectly safe.” “But it’s better for you to have clean water. And it’s just not safe for you two to be by yourselves here. I live in a compound with like minded people and we look after each other.” “Gerald, we can’t become a burden on you. We are dying. It doesn’t make any sense for you to take us on and try and get us somewhere. We’re going to die anyway, here or there.” “Mom!” I say, the words catching in my throat. Tears are in my eyes. “Don’t say that! Something can be done! You have to try!” She leans forward and takes my hand. “Gerald, there’s nothing to do. Let’s just enjoy your visit.”
As I stumble through the empty streets I can hear the shards of glass crack under my shoes, an almost satisfying sound to listen to, but far to loud. Shivers of fear run up my spine as up ahead of me i spot a torn down sign, the sign reads “Now Entering California.” The rusted metal has three scratch marks running across, making the words almost indistinguishable. The sign brings back so many feelings, memories that i have tried to forget about for a long time. If I remember what happened on that day, i think my will to keep surviving would be lost.
215 days earlier, day one
“Honey wake up, we’re almost their.” My mum says to me with glee in her voice. Sitting up I unrest my head from my hand. Looking out the window i see a tall green road sign that reads, “Now Entering California.” Moving cities is something i never wanted to do, but it makes my mum happy so it makes me happy. She then try’s to hold my hand, her white ruffle sleeves covering her entire palm. We then descend into the underground parking lot of our new apartment, the smell of gas and exhaust instantly hitting my nose. Our car comes to a stop and we begin unpacking our bags. “This is exiting isint it honey?” My mum says. “Yeah, I’m really happy.” As we walk up the stairs toward our aprtament i look out one of the windows overlooking the street. As I watch the cars go by blaring sirens break through the once quiet atmosphere. One after another police, ambulance, firefighter, police, ambulance, firefighter. As quickly as the parade of vehicles started it ends. I didn’t think much of it and countuined upward. The thick apartment door is slowly heaved open and the look of the apartment hits me like a brick. It overlooks a construction site, it smells like a dead rat and it has dirt on the walls. “Mum you can’t seriously think this is where we’re staying do you?” “Look honey it’s just until i get a new job and find us another place, it won’t be for long i promise.” She leans over and kisses me on the forehead. I’m not mad at her, but i can’t beilve she didn’t warn me about the living conditions, but even though i really want to just scream i know she’s trying her best. “Well I’m heading off to the shops, see you in a bit sweetie.” “By mum, love you.” “Love you more!.” Almost simultaneously to the heavy door closing a blaze of heat runs up my back as I’m suddenly thrown against the wall, almost like a giant just punched me with full fource. Blinking awake i don’t realise the blood covering my body, or the thick smoke, i just think of her. “Mum!” I weakly yell, “MUM” i push myself up, adrenaline filling my body. My whole apartment is covered in thick ash and smoke, i rush to the door and pull it open with all the strength i have left, the sight horrifies me. Nothing, just nothing, no floor no walls it looks like a knife had cut straight through the apartment. Trembling I slowly look down and see piles and piles of rubble and fire. But in amongst all of it i spot a singular white ruffle sleeve poking out and blowing in the breeze.
We had all seen him as a great leader. So yes we had all voted for him. Oh, how I regretted that decision now. Exactly 7 months later, our home was in ruins. Bombs seemed to explode every other minute and so many people had died. And in the wreckage, I was the leader. Some how, I was leading a revolution. I tend to regret my past decisions but sometimes I like to think it will affect my, our future, in better ways than ever.
Slowly, brought to ruin.
The carving of buildings, the curbing of vigor, the substraction of growth.
All leading to a broken, despairing realm of lost ambition and shattered hopes.
The riots could have changed things. The uprising could have turned the tables.
But slowly, we were brought to ruin.
Our efforts, fruitless. Our desires, neutered.
Maybe we should have never resisted. Maybe we’d still have somewhere to call home.
But now we only have this. A dismantled array of fraying sanity, lost to the void of sorrow.