I'm not quite sure whether I'm going with movie-verse or comic-verse (both general characters and the different endings). Can be interpreted either way.
Each chapter will be, at the very most, somewhere around 1000 words to fit with my schedule. Some might be very long and others short. They'll be in relative chronological order. I will try my best not to compromise content.
Please review or comment.
No. 1
It is November 24. The year is 1970. I am cold.
The gravel crunches beneath my booted feet as I walk quickly down the trails along the beaches of Lake Washington. My breath mists in pale plumes around my face, my nose red and my ears numb with cold under a worn baseball cap.
The air stings in my lungs.
The lake is grimy, filthy – toxic dumping into the waters have made it unsafe for any sort of activities with and around the channels. Up ahead I see an old man and his son fishing in the water. Packed down with heavy winter coats and ripped woolen gloves, the pair stand silently on the worn dock.
I want to tell them that they shouldn't fish there – that there were deposits of mercury and trash and wastes that the fish eat away at slowly. But I'm tired, and the bruises along my side hurt with every breath.
Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch.
Behind me I hear the sound of someone running closer and closer. Close enough now that I can hear their strangely steady breathing, the even pace of their footfalls.
I do not turn but the man slows down next to me. His hair glints gold in the pale, washed-out light from the overcast clouds. As if we can hear each other's thoughts, we're both waiting for the other person to speak. He's walking very close to me. I can feel his warm breath on my bare shoulder – on a rip in my jacket where my skin shows through.
"Are you alright, miss? You're limping."
His voice is lightly accented – German? I'm not quite sure. I silently shake my head, but the movement causes a spike of pain to flare up in my ribs and I hide my wince, hide the soft gasp I make. But he hears it all the same.
The cold air is making my head hurt, and I can already feel the sticky, warm liquid beginning to seep from the wrappings on my waist. He seems to be waiting for me to say something, do something. The atmosphere is stifling.
Tired. So tired and cold. Hair brushing in cold wisps against my bare neck. Man walking next to me, hand reaching to grasp my shoulder; old man far behind with his son on the docks. Evil grey water lapping at the rocky shores. Seagulls wheeling in the frozen sky, harsh, vibrating cries from their throats.
Wind pushing through trees; leaves flashing their silvery sides.
He is Ozymandias. King of Kings.
I am but a civilian doing what's right.
I'm falling.