Here is the first chapter of the reloaded story that got deleted. For those who are confused, go see my notes under "SUMMER IN IRELAND:10TH Anniversary revived!" and you'll see what I mean.
Anyways, I got the idea from another author who gave me his consent of doing a version of my own after I chose to edit his story a while back.
Oh! I wish to thank Rosa Laevigata for suggesting the title!
DISCLAIMER
The Chipmunks are an American music group of singing anthropomorphic chipmunks created in 1958 by by Ross Bagdasarian Sr. which he owned under the formerly called Bagdasarian Film Corporations now called Bagdasarian Productions owned and operated by Ross Bagdasarian Jr. and Janice Karman.
The character Pooka is a fictional dog in the 1997 American animated film Anastasia, produced and directed by Don Bluth and Gary Goldman at Fox Animation Studios.
Earth, a world long forgotten, a once terrestrial beacon of life now scarred by its former inhabitants and their artificial leavings, now an impurity floating around in space, a ball of garbage so to speak. Such an ironically laughable thought that it's the only known habitable planet in the known universe, if anyone could've seen it now….
However, no one can or ever will again, now that it is by definition: devoid of life. An entire planet with absolute zero population, the former twelve billion inhabitants left their mark, or marks seen from space by new landscapes made entirely of garbage, if the atmosphere had any visibility that is. Even the air is subsequently thick from pollution and the landmasses are almost unrecognizable. Entire continents covered, reshaped, and transformed into a combination of tundra and desert like wastelands solely by plastic, paper, and metal waste, every city now giant junkyards buried by mountains or towers of trash if seen from afar.
Here, in the Buy N' Large Cleanup Sector NA-001, formerly known as New York City, it is barely what it used to be like by the people who lived here. The once mighty iconic buildings of downtown Manhattan now dwarfed or were buried by the even taller copious numbers of towers made entirely of trash cubes, thousands of feet high and stretching on for miles in all directions. The once water filled bays of the Hudson now dried up polluted valleys by the receded Atlantic. Old buildings and bridges mostly rusted and eroded away by the etchings of time, nature, and man's impact. Garbage and the howling volatile winds the only predominant feature present in the once recognizable metropolis but it's not the only thing in this hellhole.
A faint but clear chirping of music sounded, like a whisper in the winds of the dead city. In the distance, something moves amongst the heaps of trash, traversing the streets, a single living being.
Maybe it isn't so devoid of life...
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
A lone anthropomorphic male chipmunk walked around the avenues of trash towers, strolling across the desolate littered streets carrying out his job, known as "directive." The sound of music emitted from the chipmunk's playable yet eroded and abused with slight static ancient cassette player gave the only sign of life in this place.
He stops near a small, ancient mobile compactor nearby, one of many around the sector, wielding a shovel in his heavy-duty gloved hands, begins scooping a pile after pile of the land's indefinite filth into the device, and activated it. The sound of its obsolete and worn hydraulics grinding as it compresses the garbage into a cube echoing through the streets, not silencing the sound of upbeat happy music. The compactor opens and spits out a one by one meter cube of junk, weighing roughly fifty kilos. The chipmunk then picks it up with practiced ease and carries it behind his back. Another life form, a small flaccid eared, fuzzy grayish-brown canine mutt follows right behind him. After some considerable climbing and carrying up a height of trash, the chipmunk finally stacks the cube along with others on the top of the trash tower.
The chipmunk pauses for a moment, leaning against the cubes trying to catch his breath from such labor. He wore a very old, ratty, and dirty coverall jumpsuit, its jean texture cloth coated with stains of dirt, dust, grime, sweat, oil, grease, and god-knew-what other impurities covered him and a Bleu de France blue turtleneck sweater with its sleeves rolled up under his overalls. His name, Simon, barely readable on the similarly worn red patch explicitly roughly stitched on his left breast side, its letters "BNL" all but faded. He stood four feet nine and looked in his late teens. His exposed areas of fur had a sun-bleached shade of light brown from the dust and unforgiving sun, his unruly messy tan tuft of hair stuck out in different directions.
He looks back up to the cubes in front of him.
"Huh?" Something caught his attention, a shimmering object from one of the cubes. He grabs it, it doesn't budge, and he tries harder, grunting for more strength, still nothing. Yanking it with his feet on the cubes, pulling with all his might, the iridescent object finally breaks free with a sudden force that Simon falls flat on his back. He sits himself up and simply stared at the object he pried free, just a circular aluminum trash lid.
Malleable Metal? Lustrous gray? The chipmunk tosses the lid twice in the air and catches it in his hands.
Lightweight? Hmm . . . If I remember correctly from my lessons, this is part of the boron group of chemical elements known as aluminum. But . . . what exactly is this? he wondered how something so simple would make him work himself to just know what it was, such curiosity he had.
"Pooka!" He whistles for his mutt companion to come with him, back down the one thousand meter or one three hundred, nine thousand feet of trash tower in a spiraling makeshift ramp, slowly making his way smoothly but at unease at the sight of a long way down to the streets below.