The young die before their time.
The old wrinkle with age,
Watching unable to help.
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War, famine, greed.
Man makes the inevitable
All the more unbearable
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We look atbackwards,
At decisions not made.
A life lived in regret.
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When paths present opportunity,
We hesitate to act.
Only with ourselves to blame.
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Life is a cruel mistress
If we live in the shadows of others
Shed the burden of others expectations
And flourish as our own selves
A life in the shadows,
Marked by early alarms and sunrise starts
Full of dedication,
Long after dark with late night runs.
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Dedication. Passion. Drive
The pilllars of progress.
A life of sacrifice, time worth living.
Setting Goals and pulling through
.
Through triumph and testing,
to weight loss and success.
A well sought out pursuit,
Easily admired, but hard to achieve.
Life, growth, beginning and renewal.
Green is the essence of the living,
The colour of sustenance,
.
Brown its enemy,
Unavoidable and inevitable
The colour of decay,
Death finds a way.
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Red vs Blue,
Green turn to Brown,
Black and White.
Life and Death,
Yin and Yang,
Contrast and completeness,
The battle of the living.
I am the shadow. I stand ever-present in the corner of room. I am only seen by those who know where to look. I remain unnoticed and forgotten, hidden in the darkness of my own complexion. The sun’s light is absent from my inferno, with only deaths cold embrace as my companion. This is my fate, my punishment for what I am.
I am a Black Man. My very birth was a crime in itself. Brought into this world, I was unaccepted, I was trapped and I am unwanted. I am the sprinter, with no shoes. I am but a builder, without bricks. I am a lock, without a key, shut permanently from the world. I am a man born without freedom, without choices, without life itself.
Long ago, in distant memory, I had a time of blissful ignorance. A time of my youth, this was a time when I was unaware, a time when I used to dream. I once had dreams of a future. I was to become a doctor. I was going to help people. I was going to save people. I was going to be the difference in this world.
That was a long time ago. Like a dream that has long since faded away from recollection. A period from my life that appears more imagination that an actual memory. Dead, Along with the fool that dreamed them. What use is the shell, the façade of a man? What could I have done? I was born into Apartheid strong Africa.
I was born as Michael, a Zulu. I had been given a life of nothingness. I’ve been left alone, forgotten by the world of capitalism, by a world too busy in its daily grind. This was the life set for us blacks here in South Africa.
My life frozen in gridlock, at a standstill, motionless as the rest of the world carried on without a single care. With no alternate route, no way forward, I had no hope.
This is the story of my transformation, my acceptance and my rebirth.
It all started promisingly. As a youth, I was optimistic. I had no reason not to be. My family owned our own coffee shop in the centre of town. Each day my father would dry and grind the coffee beans, make the coffees and maintain the equipment. While at the same time mother would take orders, count the money and clean the shop. Each and every morning I would attend school, and in the afternoons I would help in the shop with my brothers and sisters. Daily Life wasn’t easy, with early starts and late nights, but it was simple. It had a routine, it had meaning.
We used to be the businesses, we used to be the car dealerships, and we used to be the people. All of which means nothing now. Distant memories that feel more like dreams than events of the past. Memories some say best left forgotten, as in the struggle it is better to be blissfully ignorant than emotionally vulnerable.
One memory from such a time in particular stands out in my mind. It was your typical evening of my youth. I raced around the store chasing my brothers in the everlasting game of tag. With time rapidly running out, I didn’t want to finish the night the dreaded loser, so I ran harder and cut my corners. In doing so I did the unthinkable. As I reached within an arm’s length of my eldest brother, I took a misstep and ran head on into a ‘coloured’ customer enjoying his afternoon brew. A large crash and tumble ensued. Next thing I know, the two of us sat in a tangled heap on the floor with burning coffee spilt all over us. The man shot up, shaking the coffee out of his hair. In hysterics he yelled, labelling my family as ‘tainted’ and ‘black scum’, before bursting out of the store with a flurry, in clenched fist fury. I remember the look of pity my mother gave me, holding me in her arms, comforting me.
Comfort… an emotion that left my life for so many years. Years I spent living without family, without the warmth of embrace, without the soul of existence. That fateful day in 1958 made sure of that, the day that Apartheid law became my life.
Like it was yesterday, I can still remember as armed guards broke into our home in the shadow of night. Machine guns slung on their shoulders, as they pushed my family from our beds. Reeking of sweet and blood, the men flung us from our houses, hitting whatever got in their way, be it person or treasure.
Gathering outside, we were told that we no longer had rights to our property. We ‘black scum’ were living in ‘white’ territory, in which we were deemed unfit to live. This was the world in which I had been born into, where the colour of one’s skin dominated the life he could live.
We had been thrown from of our homes, with little more than the rags on our backs. As my father left the house, he held his head high, determined to show how strong we were. My father was a very proud man.
My family was relocated to a black settlement, a place where us ‘blacks’ could live out of sight and out of mind. My new home was a township, or what you may call a Shanty or a tin village. The internet tells stories of these townships, of poverty and of life lacking of even the basic necessities. It has none such luxury, those photos and stories lie, failing to capture the inferno that had become my household.
We were thrown onto a barren landscape. Red-black dried earth became our carpets, an absence of lush trees our surrounding fence. There was no water, but instead we drunk from the lakes of despair. All we had between us were a few blankets and couple of loaves of bread. Life was hard.
For the next ten years of my life, this habitat unfit for an animal became by home. This township became my hell, my eternal punishment for being born with black skin.
Growing into a metropolis of crude iron and tin buildings, the township became the very definition of a slum. Diseases and filth soon followed, taking my youngest siblings with them. By the end of it there wasn’t even the strength of will for a proper burial, instead the dead fell as they lay, including the bodies of my youngest two sisters. I recall thinking that the dead were the lucky ones, forever escaping torture that ‘life’ had become.
Each day my father and my eldest brothers were shipped into Cape Town to work as domestic servants, the bus drivers, the rubbish collectors, the sewerage workers. The hours long, the pay criminal.
These once proud men had been reduced to slaves, existing as mere shells of their former selves. These were the lucky few; most men and women couldn’t find work. Those that couldn’t find woke, instead spent each day in varying emotional states of self-pity, without an income to buy their daily meal, just waiting to die.
Each night, my father, on his return would collapse in heaps where he stood, crying of what had become of us, of what Africa had become.
As time went on, as day became week and week became year, things regressed. There is no law, no justice on the streets of hell. Ruled by gangsters and rapists, skills of theft and strength took the place of wisdom and determination. Violence, rape and burglary surrounded us on all sides, becoming the walls of our lives. Countless times women, including my mother and surviving sisters would be raped in the middle of a neighbourhood, in the open for all to see. No matter how much they cried, nor how loud they pleaded, their tears would fall on deaf ears. It became our abyss of torture. No longer were family structures sticking together ,no longer did friends trust each other; it became a battle, a constant fight for survival. Everyone was against you, everyone became your enemy. It became my crusade for existence. This was my individual pilgrimage of escape. This is a story of my attempt to get out; to become human and join the world.
It was during these dark times that I was reduced to my lowest. I did things that I am not proud of. I stole everything of value, anything that I could sell. If I suspected a neighbour was hiding wealth, I would beat them to a pulp just to make a few cents. Every day I was just trying just to get that next meal, to make it to tomorrow, to survive another day.
We were no longer men, beings possessing of humanity. We had changed; we have become the savages, the animals of Apartheid rule. Reduced by the law, ironically to the very things it claimed us to be; criminals and lesser people.
At my very worst, during a time when deaths warm embrace started to appeal. A time when eternal damnation almost seemed better than real life, I found my opportunity to live. It was during one of my many scavenger hunts for food, I came across a group of Afrikaners who were examining us young men for the monthly work rostering. Each month previously I had been refused for being too dirty and too black, no matter how much I cleaned myself with water and soap. Every time I threw myself in front of the restorers and allowed myself hope of a chance to stand equal, I was rejected and thrown back down into the depths of hell where I continued to live.
This time it was different. I told myself that this was my opportunity, that this was it. I presented myself as a 20 year old male named Thomas. I no longer knew my age, each day became a blur of night and day, and time no longer knew meaning. A new name also meant a new start, a blank canvas to work upon.
This was my lucky break. I was taken me in as the maid of an English family in town, who had requested the service of a Black man. I was provided shelter in the maid’s quarters and a paid income for the first time in my life.
It was the first time I slept inside for years, let alone in a bed. I had access to flowing and clean water, a protected shelter and I no longer had the regular struggle to survive. My daily life changed from running, scavenging and stealing to one of cooking, cleaning and attending. My life had meaning again, if only by routine. Each day started early, occupied by the varying duties of the household. I was given the very basic of luxuries, and yet my life improved dramatically. I stopped swearing, stopped hating.
However I did not regain hope. I still was a lesser being. Still an animal, an outsider, the pet to my masters will. I was merely an animal now domesticated, to work at the whim of my owners.
Each mistake was rewarded with punishment. I was not allowed to communicate with the children, I was to be seen and not heard. When they were entertaining guests I was either locked in the kitchen or the maid quarters, an embarrassment to look upon and blight upon the party, and humanity itself.
In the evenings I was often beaten by the master of the house and his wooden baton that he carried around with him. He was ‘cleansing Africa’ with each stroke, and once blood rushed the surface; he was one step closer to a better Africa.
Each blow hurt more than the first. Each progressive wound taking longer to heal than before. Each nights ‘cleansing’ resulted in a deeper bruise and a more painful scar on my body. These scars are my souvenirs of Apartheid. And yet, I took each blow without wincing.
I was the perfect servant, perhaps thankful for the attention. Fooling myself, perhaps brainwashed, that I had ‘deserved’ each blow and that actual progress was being made with each punishment. Nonetheless the fall of evening would mark the hour of the baton, and the cycle continued.
My life had moved from one hell to another. Instead of being the ignored, criminal slave of ignored black society, I became the blatantly obvious mistreated slave of inner white society. I had replaced my physical torture for a more intense emotional one, as each day took further from my faded soul and I drifted further and further away from humanity.
It wasn’t until ‘She’ stayed that I finally learnt the truth of acceptance, the equality of race, the truth of life. I never learnt her name, and I fear I never will. But I will never forget what she looks like. With her long flowing dark hair that parted in the middle of her head and caused one to focus on the middle of her face. Once focused, one’s gaze was met with big round expressive eyes joined by a gleaming white smile. Together forming a sense of radiant heat and perfect beauty, that caused a flutter in my heart. ‘She’ carried herself with such grace, that when combined with her slim frame, created an elegance that is unseen with white women in these parts.
‘She’ was beautiful, happy and free. Yet she gave me the time of the day, would speak to me when she saw me, would wish me a good morning and a good evening. Sometimes late in the evening once everyone would go asleep she would tell me stories about her far away land known as New Zealand; a land of ‘multiculturalism’. ‘She’ filled me head with ideas of an equal society, a just Africa, a country in which Blacks and Whites lived without fear of one another, like that of her country.
Slowly I learnt to dream again, eventually I learnt to live again. I not only was filled with ideas and possibilities, but for the first time since I was young I was accepted for who I was. After many secret hours together she taught me how to read and write. I became educated, I learnt about morals, about mathematics, about culture.
A distant relative of my masters, ‘She’ travelled to South Africa on a cultural exploration, eager to learn and explore. Each word spoken was like heaven to me, each smile given me erupted a volcano inside, causing warm lava like feelings to flow throughout my body.
And then suddenly after 6 months of living, she disappeared from my life forever. I was left alone again, returning to the world of the forgotten.
I was left, however, with the best thing of all, a gift that I never had. An object of hope, hope for the future. I had been redeemed of my past and my birth. I became accepted, I had been educated, and I am the one thing that money cannot buy you. I am a black man in Africa with a future.
What is a man?
If not mere bones and skin.
A pink weak shell, easily pierced.
But defenceless flesh, a slave to his emotion.
Oft a single standing statistic, easily forgotten.
.
What is life?
If not a game of cat and mouse.
A daily challenge, with winners and losers.
An ever-expanding struggle to please.
In an engrossing society,
An eagerness to conform,
One is judged by normality.
.
What is normal?
If not boring,
Life spent living another’s plan.
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What is God?
If not false hope,
An avenue to escape,
When alone, before one grabs for rope.
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Why do we exist?
If one’s act justifies his means.
Then will we ever stop,
Whilst others exist to judge.
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Are we forever trapped by destiny?
Meandering down a set path,
Slaves to lady fate,
Can one truly be set free?
.
How will we ever escape?
Darkness encompasses all sides,
The unknown future sparks doubts,
Questions forever conquer answers.
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The weakness of man.
An insatiable need for approval.
A domineering lust for women.
A savage of primitive emotion.
A mere shell of potential,
Lost in great pain.
Sticks and stones may piece his skin,
But words puncture his soul.
Entry 1
Hindsight is a concurrent blessing and burden. A concoction of regret and learning, achieved as if bitting into the apple of knowledge. Regrets which lead oneself to wish, pray and plead for a second chance. Regrets that fuel the undying desire to turn back the page. Regrets that create a yearning to re-live a single moment. Learning that can change the very fabrics of the future. Learning that changes ones very life by design. A deathly mixture, by acting together, now holds a people at ransom.
A whole country, nay the entire world and all its inhabitants now sit in hindsight. A collective prayer for a second chance that will never come cries out across the globe. This is it. This is the end. There will be no tomorrow, nor a happy ending. Our book has reached its sudden and final conclusion. This is my goodbye.
Our greatest weakness has been to blame. Man’s endless greed. Our ever increasing desire fuelled the engines of darkness. This was man’s unquenchable thirst, our ravenous demand for eternal satisfaction.
As repeated throughout history, with each stage of human advancement, the fires for greed burnt ever brighter as each newfound luxuries drove our cravings.
Humans, who for years have burdened an already ageing earth, continued to place stresses on unsustainable surroundings. An irreversible devastation of natural resources, weakened the ecosystems, and placed world systems under an unassailable amount of pressure. Slowly our greed segregated once close allies, divided a people and caused worldwide civil war. Greed quietly fuelled racist hate, igniting the tempers of world leaders. The snowballing effect led to an inevitable conflict. Reminiscing of the later 1900s, threats of nuclear war immerged, with the now unavoidable holocaust set to wipe out all humanity.
We must take responsibility for our actions, for our hand has never been forced. Our insolvable hunger has been our downfall. Mankind’s greed will be forever vanquished at last, as we enter a new age of Armageddon, in a case of pure irony.
Men and women, daughters and sons, grandfathers and granddaughters are spending their last dying moments together. Huddled together, they sit praying to their many gods for salvation.
Here I sit attempting to write a story. With little else to do, perhaps it will help make the time pass easier. If nothing else it will help ease my heavy heart. This story marks the final fall of man.
Entry 2
My name is John Gareth, I am 17. Young, you may say, but mature enough to have seen the signs. The following is my attempt to document the final fall of man, and my last act to say goodbye to the world that we have grown into, loved and abused.
As recently as last few months I was planning my life. I was to be a business man, I was to have a family, and I was to have a life. Empty dreams that now lay unfulfilled. My path suddenly vanished under my feet. I now stand lost, stationary in the story of life. Here I remain, waiting for the inevitable happen.
I sit in an underground repurposed fallout shelter. Deep within the earth, little optimism remains. The stench of death and stale forlorn hope surrounds me. We may survive the bombs, but there is no hope surviving the nuclear winter. I sit in anger, my face contorted in a rage at the people that have gone before me. What could one man do against billions starved by the evils of greed?
The world has been built on gluttony, on the powers of segregation and control. A hierarchal society established to bully the little guy. The man made culture demanded everything from the hardworking diminutive worker, as society watched forever asking for more. A society that slowly pushed the sunken man back into the wall, and like a rat in the corner he pounced. This has been our ultimate end, as it is the time when the little guy had finally had enough.
The little guy could have been one of many countries that have suffered under the influence of the capitalistic big wigs. The first to retaliate in reality was Honduras. Honduras who has sat quiet, abused and ignored for years. Honduras, who as a nation, had for years had been spat upon and mocked in all fields of international negotiation. Multinational corporations from England and the United States constant drive for ever better profit margins abused the peaceful nation. Money, the true power of the world, managed to suck every last resource out of the limited country in South America.
Years of ill-treatment and poverty pushed the Honduras government into a corner, surrounded on all sides by debt and suffering. And like a rat, the government snapped into action, acting as the proud people they were before being reduced to slaves.
Not known for its military might, Honduras had very little in terms of nuclear capacity. It was not the size of which was deadly, but the coordinated attacks which hurt most. Honduras used their armada to target key strategic positions, sending 5 fully operational nuclear warheads to major cities throughout Europe and the United States.
In response, worldwide failsafe programs initiated. Over the coming weeks, nuclear warheads took to the skies, in the first truly global act. A worldwide retaliation sent thousands upon thousands of tons of explosive death across the world. Honduras had sent the snowball on its path, its inevitable decent preordained as it quickly gains size and speed.
Looking back, the signs were clear. Together we should have found the solution. Together we should have acted. Now we sit doomed, knowing that there is nothing left to do but wait.
Entry 3
It all started on a sunny afternoon, I believe it was a Thursday. Mere weeks ago I suspect. Life has already changed so much…
It was your typical winter’s day. As per usual many people were rugging up, trying to cover themselves from the cold. These people were sluggish in their daily grind, trying to milk every minute off work. School lessons had begun to blur together as boredom was replaced by an everlasting longing for the day to end.
As Countless millions now lie dead, and as many more suffer, the world is eternally willing for their days never to end. It’s quite ironic isn’t it, the old saying ones man rubbish, is another man’s treasure. Such a saying has never held so much meaning before.
The bell rung, brains switched on and the day finally started at 3pm sharp. All over school, groups were meeting up to get on with the few hours of freedom they get each day. Armed to my teeth in homework, it appeared that my sovereign liberty demanded homework took priority. Slowly I climbed onto the bus, making my way through the years as I took my rightful seat with my peers at the back. This is where life became interesting, where the world of yesterday stopped. It was this point at time that marked the beginning of the end. It must have been about 3:15.
National cell phone reception was cut, the first of many luxuries lost. By the time I got off the bus, armed soldiers had begun to take to the streets. I noticed many roads were now blocked. Citizens took to rioting, demanding to hear answers. Society had fallen into total anarchy. Chaos was the king of the streets. This was barely the beginning.
My family sat huddled around the television, as emergency news channels reported the events occurring across the globe. Horrible explosions flashed across the screen. The unmistakable mushroom clouds of nuclear weaponry were being broadcast live across the world. Every channel showed death and true suffering as the nuclear holocaust began.
As my family sat around the television, we still held onto a sense of false hope. Our biggest fear was that of the unknown. As I hold onto what remains of my family, we sit in acceptance of our guaranteed death, only comforted by the thoughts that we have survived this far.
Entry 4
It’s crazy to think how quickly civil manner was lost. Days had progressed slowly as each moment was a struggle to survive. Nights were often spent sleepless, as scavengers took to the streets. Days were spent avoiding rioters, sticking to the shadows and surviving.
There were no longer rules. Rumours spread that the government had been lost and disbanded. Society collapsed. Moral values, etiquette and respect were ignored as savagery took over. Strength and fear took the places of intelligence and respect. The festering wound of greed had poisoned society. As civilised life began to decay, its stench affected the lives of the living.
Food stocks began to run out and life returned to survival of the fittest. The strongest survived and the weak perished. My brother and I became salvagers, searching through ruinous towns for scraps to eat. Each moment a struggle, each day a battle, this began our war of survival.
Nearing death, my brother and I were able salvage some stale bread. We had broken into a vandalized bakery, already ransacked by salvagers come before us. The only thing we found was a rock solid loaf of bread. No one complained as we devoured the bread, careful not to waste any scraps. We hadn’t eaten for days and were nearing a point of delusion.
Nothing had ever tasted so good. The sawdust like bread melted in my mouth. Explosions of taste fuelled the fires of my memory, of family meals shared and good times had. It is amazing how much assurance a full stomach can give you. Hope slowly returned with each mouthful, that when the sun finally set the night would be a little less dark that evening.
Having succumbed to mere scavengers, life after the bomb had descended into mayhem. Slowly mankind turned on each other, renegade groups became the policemen and strength became the law of the land. Friends and family dynamics broke down, relationships were lost and a people reverted to animal savagery.
In retrospect, this stands as a mere taste of what would become. A clear warning of what the future held. This was a time when I still held hope, a time when I thought that humanity could withstand. I still believe that we could rebuild, learn from our mistakes and endure.
I look back in envy of how suns comforting embrace warmed my back. There was light at the end of the tunnel.
Now I embrace the darkness, it is my final sanctuary as the bombs continue to drop above, and the inevitable end draws near.
Entry 5
Man’s deterioration has been immense. All hope has long faded. Worldwide communication cut off instantly as the final emergency broadcast was received in homes throughout Australia. We were unmistakably alone. The true nature of the situation had hardly sunk in until then. The comforts of home life were finally over.
This was the true end of the world as we knew it. Each day was my eternal damnation.
Sydney was utter mayhem. Bodies lined the streets. Fires burnt in the buildings. Glass scattered the sidewalks. Families lay lost, having been long separated. Newly made orphans lay crying, wishing for comfort.
Australia, long being neglected and forgotten by its neighbours, had become somewhat of a testing ground for bombs. New experimental technology and methods of warfare were being tested on Australian citizens. Our only redemption lay in our exemption from nuclear warfare, the bombs at this point not being atomic.
Sleep became increasingly impossibly, as constant barrages of bombs littered the skyline. Days began to blur together as shelter and cover became more difficult to find.
Sleeplessness took over. My decent was at its lowest, and this became my darkest hour. My inner animal took over. My savage instincts forced me to break my last remaining ethical promise. I was truly the creation of the apocalypse. A man reduced to his weakest.
It was during this time I committed the lowest of all sins. I Killed a man. Murder in itself doesn’t account for the true evil that occurred. I lost control, my very soul became absent.
My brother’s death sickened my mind. I sought revenge, I sought justice. I became the savage beast of war.
I struck the first person I came across in an emotional rage. It had been a single man walking innocently down the street. I comfort myself with the thought that perhaps he was not so innocent, as no one is truly is in this new world.
I still remember the way he stared at me with those big green glassy eyes, struggling under my grip as I slowly strangled the life out of him. Under my strength the figure struggled in pain and desperation. As the life left his body, his limbs became limp and motionless. His eyes continued to stare into the depth of my soul, watching and pleading me as I stole his life from him. The clear glassy green became somewhat of a cloudy hazel as the darkness erupted from inside me.
For a time I couldn’t deal with the injustice. I couldn’t live with the beast I had become. I lost myself within my emotions and feelings. I became a creature of the street. I was desperate, alone and lost. I couldn’t return to my family for a period as I dealt with my inner demons.
I only returned after I felt I could do my brother proud. I want to restore the honour to my family name. This was my Holocaust, my genocide. A title fit for a man lost. I was the man losing the fight with himself.
I can’t write any more today, I will continue further in the next part.
Entry 6
I have long since forgotten the sensation of crying. There have been too many tears spilled, too many lives lost. The death of my brother has hardened me, no longer am I a slave to my emotions. I have become the machine, a perpetual engine, soullessly wondering down my eternal walk.
Nightmares of my brother’s death still haunt my dreams. Nightly I live re-live the bloody execution of his life. The hands of greed scratch at his being. Each night I see his body, ripped to pieces, from a crude shrapnel bomb explosion.
His fleshy remains lay scattered throughout what remains of our kitchen. Warm sticky blood drips down the walls and pools on the floor. His bones, like toothpicks, lay shattered. A stench of death fills the room. The centre of the room is cold, as if the void of his existence makes life even icier.
At first I cried, the innocence of my childhood whaled for the love and memory of my brother. My Brother who had supported me when no one else would, he gave me confidence when I had none myself and most of all he laughed with me when all else had given up. In his death he remains the older brother, watching over me and supporting me when everyone else has given up hope. This is why I no longer cry, because like in death, giving up would be the easy option. My brother would like not like me to succumb as a savage.
I will make my brother proud in my final moments, before I meet him in the afterlife.
Entry 7
Quickly, the bombings increased in scale and velocity. Streets almost overnight became uninhabitable. Trying to survive together, and hold some sense of togetherness, the remaining three members of the family adopted a nomadic lifestyle.
Moving around was tolling on my elder parents. As the option for shelter became scarcer, we descended into desperation. Eventually the three of us settled into an underground existence, living in the wide midst of the subway system.
The subway provided somewhat of a sanctuary for some time. Basic comforts meant everything to us, we were able to rest, eat and recuperate without the fear of death on our shoulders. The explosions no longer pressed an immediate concern, instead acting as a muffled reminder of the horrors above.
Slowly, the erratic lifestyle took its toll on my mother. Her body started to give up, her immune system was failing and she fell very ill. It was clear that something needed to change.
After a deep discussion, it was clear that a variation was necessary. Together we drew straws, trying to remain just and fair. Drawing the small straw my father left the group, setting off to find something, anything that was better. I remained behind, to attend to my mother. I spent hours making her as comfortable as possible, hoping beyond hope that she will recover, or gain some of what she used to have.
………………………………………………………………
Hours later my father returned, bruised and exhausted. Collapsing in a heap, father immediately fell asleep. As he lay I tended to his wounds and washed his face.
Later as father woke with a start, he spoke with extreme excitement. It was apparent that his assignment had been a success. Father spoke of a hidden emergency shaft, a vault of sorts, buried deep within the earth’s core. Father spoke of how such a vault could save our lives, how humanity could rebuild and survive together. We had only one thought on our minds from that point onwards, entry into the vault.
Instantaneously our group grew in stature that day. A single ray of hope warmed our hearts. I see this as my own inner point of recovery. I finally left the dark, I was alive with hope. Our group’s mood had clearly changed. We were suddenly excited about living through to tomorrow.
Here we had a single opportunity, and nothing was going to stand in the way. Together, over a couple of days, we carried each other towards the vault. With goal in mind and hope in heart, all three of us made the long climb down into the depths of the earth.
Here we sit, in a makeshift survival vault, built within the remains of an ancient mining system. Above we can hear the bombs dropping ever more, their explosions ever louder, shaking the very core of the earth. We all know together that nuclear warheads will eventually make their way to our shores. Will we survive the fallout? My hope is dwindling. My confidence in my fellow man is fleeting. Here I remain hopeless as the world around my literally crumbles to ash.
Entry 8
I look around the room and feel no emotion. I do not see men and women with me, only cowards, mere shells of their former selves. Already there is uncertainty. A few sit with false hope, holding onto religious values, assured that their faith will save them. Others sit in confusion, wondering what could have been done. Their anger grows with every minute as blame shifts from government to society to one another. The remainder cry, accepting their fate and embracing the darkness that is to come.
We have not learnt our lesson, we remain divided. A people segregated by fear, of unacceptance, and of our destiny.
As the hours pass by my thoughts turn to my surroundings. Together we remain trapped under the earth. Our holdings, that mere months ago, I would have deemed uninhabitable, now stands as our last remaining hope of sanctuary. We are surrounded by 6 inch thick iron, 1000m below the earth’s surface. The air is thick down this deep, and a constant feeling of suffocation engulfs my body.
Since we have arrived I have had the putrid taste of vomit in my mouth, and each passing minute the gagging sensation increases. Each breath we take is more laboured and more forced. I fear we will suffocate down here. My feelings of dread rock my mind as I am reminded of what has yet to come.
My parents huddle together in the corner of the room. I cannot remember my mother ever looking so old; she sits shaken, and has lost all concept of reality. Her mind has finally given up on her, as she struggles to distinguish what is real.
My father remains humble, as he comforts my mother in her final moments. My father has remained true to his values, and true to his person throughout this whole saga. Remaining strong heartened, my father has held onto a salvaged hope of where there appears no faith. My father continues to fight the already lost battle. My father is giving humanity its one last chance at survival. He is their final hero, at the end of time.
Entry 9
This is my first and last story. I may not be much of an author, or have an incredible story to preach. However here I stand, making a record of the final fall of man. I write about the end of the known world. My life, full of potential, has come to an apparent end. I feel no regrets, I have lived and I have loved.
During my final moments I take peace knowing I am not alone, surrounded by the few people that have truly understood me, my true family. I know life won’t ever return to the joys of the past, but can I believe in the rebirth of mankind?
It has happened countless times before, empires may rise and fall but humanity will carry on. If nothing else my life has taught me what it truly means to be man. To truly be a ‘man’ one has to put himself in front of all other people, he has to hate and seek greed in all situations. With my final acts I decide I do not want to be a man in a world like this.
The air has become suffocatingly scarce. It has become too exhausting to move, too hard to escape and continue surviving. All around me people are collapsing in heaps, slowly asphyxiating. With my final breaths I plead to be greater than man, to follow in my father’s footsteps. I am John, historian for the fall of man. This is my final entry. Good luck humanity.
Searching the cavernous depths of this world,
I found you, the greatest treasure,
The most perfectly cut diamond, shining in pure beauty,
The most complete pearl, intricate and profound, a source of fascination,
The most stunning ruby, a radiant light through the darkest times,
The most sublime emerald, joyful, pure, and unbound.
Now that I’ve found you, I won’t let you slip away,
Priceless, I’ll journey through the depths of this world to witness your smile’s sway.
The once tranquil, muddy water was no longer at peace, imprisoned by submerged barriers. The ancient golden liquid lay dormant, surrounded by an unyielding force. It rose and fell like the sea, waves crashing against the plastic barrier in a relentless cycle.
Within this aquatic realm, an eternal battle of gases raged. Explosions released stored carbon dioxide, and bubbles regularly ascended to the surface, desperate to break free. Yet, the liquid remained trapped within its confined cell, coveted as if it were liquid gold.
Men and women thirsted for its satisfying power. Tentative hands reached for plastic containers, their thoughts lost in the depths of this liquid world. Silent eyes watched from above, an ominous presence bearing down on the liquid in their hands. Desperation united the group as they shared their final drink.
Huddled together for warmth against the winter chill, nervous chatter provided bittersweet distraction. Like clockwork, they raised their glasses in unison, touching their lips, commencing the ritual. Their blank, dark expressions mirrored one another, like a well-oiled machine.
Men, women, boys, and girls readied themselves for what was to come. Some struggled to drink, their anxious stomachs weakening their resolve, while others conquered their fears with liquid courage. This was their fire, their solace, their final communion before the impending battle.
The group stood united, figures gathered in identical attire, concealed by conformity, their camouflage, the garb of their army. Each wore their yellow with pride, clean and well-maintained. Alone, they were vulnerable; together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
Their local pub was the setting for one last drink together. In silence, they raised their glasses above their heads, and a lone cry rang out, spreading like ripples in a pool as more joined in. Locked in each other’s arms, they began to sing, a war chant that would announce their arrival to the enemy. Their spirits soared, and fear struck the hearts of those who opposed them.
The cry ended with a flourish as their remaining drinks were thrown into the sky, the liquid returning to cool the room, a heavenly gift washing away lingering doubts. The gods seemed to favor them that day; the group was prepared.
The war bell echoed throughout the pub, signaling their departure. Final farewells were exchanged, and friends and family were momentarily forgotten. No one person held precedence; each was a cog in the machine.
The traveling soldiers organized themselves, and in smaller units, they embarked on strategic missions en route to the battlefield. Their march consumed the entire street, and their arena assault began.
In distinct groups, they stormed the gates of the arena, their eagerness overtaking any thought of stealth. Onlookers gazed on with envy and confusion, witnessing a passionate people fighting for their love and faith.
Anarchy spread within the arena as smaller groups scattered, pillaging food and ale. They understood the need for sustenance in the impending battle. Gradually, they regrouped, forming a bunker-like zone, bellowing their favorite chant. Their badge proudly displayed, the gathered media reported the return of the Yellow Army. The colosseum resonated with their chants, and morale soared.
One hundred thirty meters away, stood the enemy, vastly outnumbered. These invaders had their own crest and cries, but their attempts to rally morale went unheard. The home army dominated, this was their war.
Eleven heroes, representing their armies, entered the field, braving torrential rain and gusty winds. Surrounded on all sides, they faced constant attacks, their communication basic and nearly impossible. These eleven were the hope of thousands.
The thousands of the Yellow Army supported from afar, offering their boisterous artillery barrages. The untrained masses, the family of the Yellow Army, raised their voices and linked arms, offering their support to the special forces.
The two elevens faced off, the Yellow Eleven resolute, their inner strength radiating throughout the stadium. The war of attrition was about to begin, and specialized units prepared for attack, defense, and everything in between.
The tension in the stadium reached its peak. A faint whistle sounded, barely heard amidst the screams of the onlookers. The battle began with a single kick, marking the start of 90 minutes of pure ecstasy. The crowd lived every moment, fueled by liquid courage and passionate hearts.
The Yellow Army continued to admire their men in black and yellow, their voices and spirits unwavering. These were the heroes of the Wellington Phoenix, New Zealand’s only professional football team. Win, lose, or draw, these football teams held the people’s hopes and dreams.
Every tackle, pass, and kick resonated with the fans. A misguided kick brought anguish, while a sublime pass elicited applause and song. Every goal was celebrated as if it were their own child, a moment of pure beauty. Here were 10,000 brothers and sisters, united in their passion.
The game continued, the referee’s decisions causing stress and controversy. Calls of bias echoed throughout the stadium, but the Yellow Fever refused to give up hope. Their chants continued, minute by minute, matching the players’ efforts.
By the 80th minute, the game was well and truly over. The Black and Yellow had an insurmountable lead. Fans strategically removed their drenched upper garments, revealing hidden flags and banners. Shirts were hurled above their heads, celebrating their victory. The opposition had long accepted defeat.
As the final whistle blew, the fans sang in relief. The Yellow Fever rejoiced, and the players celebrated their victory. Friendships were forged that night as new members joined the Yellow Fever.
The morning after, war wounds from the night before were felt, heavy heads and hoarse voices marking the price of victory. The perfect weekend continued as individuals resumed their lives, temporarily putting aside their footballing passion to spend time with their families.
This is the story of a football fan, a fanatic who lives and dies with every moment. Football is the sport that defines emotions, where supporters become a united family. This is true passion, the essence of a weekend, the spirit of football,
Here I sit a man, deeply troubled.
The weight of my actions sinking in.
Once taken for granted,
Now slipping from within.
.
Here I sit a fool, jesting upon a court
deserving of mock’
With only myself to blame
I am losing my rock
.
Here I sit a captain, aboard my rocking ship
Sailing through the rough water
I have lost sight upon safe land
Ashamed of the trouble I have bought her
.
Here I sit a boy, full of sorrow
Wishing for a second chance
To restore and make anew
With his love of first glance
.
Here I sit a Connoisseur, critiquing myself
Looking for ways I can improve
I am striving to be a better person
I offer my soul, I hope that she approves
.
Here I sit a man, on a mission
Nothing can come between us
With Daisies in hand
I hope all happens as planned
.
Here I Sit a lesser half of a couple
Reunited, Smarter after my mistakes
I promise I will try harder my love.
we deserve better than these heart aches!
Diary Entry 001
Morale is low on the front. Disease and death continue to sap at our depleted energy levels. The men are in need of a miracle. Our faith is dwindling, but we are not all without hope.
The saving supplies of Supermarket Co continues to warm our bellies, it has been 36 hours since they have departed the front and it is uncertain how frequently our supplies will be stocked. We must ration the food better.
Corporal Sebastian fever continues, meaning that I have been forced into taking in extra shifts. The enemy has yet to leave their trench. The fear of a surprise strike continues to fill the men with doubt.
I must do all I can to rally the spirit of my men. I have begun a diary to keep my sanity, I must maintain the ever-strong inspiration for my men to follow.
Late yesterday evening I caught an enemy spy in our midst, the 8 abominable heartless creature was immediately interrogated for information, before falling to a chemical shower.
I must leave you now for my night shift has begun… Remember
War, War never changes.
Diary Entry 002
Our lines of communication have been cut. We no longer can connect to the outside world. Morale plummets towards fever pitch.
The Telstra sponsored ants know no humanity, they continue to deprive us of our most basic needs.
It is with a heavy heart that I sent corporal Sebastian to bargain with the telatraites. I fear his language skills are no match for the task I have given him.
I return from the trenches tired and sore. Their artillery constant barrages is becoming ever frightening on my tired soul. Invoice after invoice is launched at me , yet here I remain. Barely alive I must not give up fighting
Ants are yet to take our lines, however we must stay ever vigilant. For war, war never changes
Amendment
Sebastian has successfully returned from the peace mission. Communication methods have been restored and the men’s morale has skyrocketed.
In celebration, corporate Sebastian has offered to cook a meal in the mess. Quarrels amongst the men continue, with many questioning his ability to cook…
Diary Entry 003
We are forsaken. The gods themselves are against us. Our trenches lie in muddy ruin. Our spirits have been washed away by the storm.
I’ve been forced to abandon my quarters as natural erosion and floods have destroyed what had become my home. One can hardly venture outside without deep-sea gear, or great spirit.
I fear letting the men venture outside camp. I worry of injury and disease. There have been too many casualties in this war, the unmarked graves are countless and all surrounding.
I will not be responsible for my men dying because of flood water and mud! These sandbags will have to suffice as our shields from the relentless storms.
Until next time. Remember war never changes.
Diary entry 004
It has been a long time between entries. Reinforcements for the departing Corporal Sebastian have arrived in the form of Brigadier Wanda and Lance -Corporal Fretch, albeit briefly.
Thus I have been shipped to the Western Pacific, as quarters buckled under the weight of crowding. For neigh on 3 years I have been fighting the evil armies of Credit. How will I survive?
Returning to the front of routine training, has seen my ranks deserted. I am now trapped in a situation I do not want to be in. My once strong camp has been left as skyscraping piles of trash.
I am without supplies, nor friends. The extra shifts I have taken are mounting upon my soul.
I have been forced to bring in a Mercenary – Starvin Marvin – who has been taking relieving shifts, although I am not sure how many more I can afford…
I am off on a supply run, bringing in much needed food and clothing – I fear I may not return. The weather has degraded, the trenches scarcely muddy hollows within the ground.
Morale is low on the front. My faith is dwindling, but we are not all without hope.
Yesterday Morning I signed a peace agreement with our 8 legged friends – he sits on watch in a studious manner, guarding his corner from the ant armies.
I fear this may be my last entry.
I must leave you now – the front calls to me.
For war, war never changes.
The StoryTeller 