I
As he rounded Wilshire Ave he stopped and marveled over the desolate view. A familiar street painted in soot. The trees rooted in concrete, lifeless and grey. The house he once grew up in stood before him, now stained black with ash, tattered and broken. The gate was rusted, the radiation eroding the paint and consuming the brick. He reached to push it and retracted his hand, refraining from touching a fragment of his history. He ascended the five-step roost and pushed the faulty door with no handle, listening tentatively for any sounds of movement inside.
Half convinced he was alone; he pushed beyond the archway and allowed himself a moment to let down his guard and take in what he had seen. His home like he had never imagined; ransacked and bludgeoned, looted of everything essential. The flat devoid of all photographs, likely burned by the previous houseguest. He felt no anger; he understood the pain of the past clinging to the broken walls, staring at the faces of the new world. He only regretted not having a photo of his own.
He dreamt of removing his gas mask, breathing in the cold air; soothing his pours that worked overtime behind the dark breather. But the air was unkind, and would choke him until blood purged from his bloodstream and filled his lungs. What a fucking way to go. He removed his glove and felt the cold air embrace his hand, which he then placed on the mahogany handrail leading upstairs. The wood stony and firm, still capable of holding his weight. A sudden thud came from upstairs, and he drew his attention to the narrow hall, peering into blackness, his nails carving into the wood. This was his home, and he had every intention of staying, which meant his guest would have to go.
Am working immensely to entertain via creative writing, all feedback is not only accepted, but highly is a multi part series as well.
Sincerely, LAA.