Because I am busy futzing over buying a new compuda, here is a bit of fiction I wrote way back in my high school days. It's supposed to be a 'descriptive piece'. It still amuses me and maybe one day I'll flesh it out into a proper story.
Rememeber, it was high school. Be kind.
The City was the underground wasteland that had assembled after The War. The War: in all history, there was only one war that had any meaning now. It was The War that had metamorphosed three billion years of evolution into vapour; The War that had burnt life into choking clouds of ash that hovered above the fractured surface of what had been Earth. All other wars were inconsequential.
Before The War, The City was built as an underground refuge for the squandering bourgeoisie that now hung as a stifling dark cloud Outside. After the war, The City drew the surviving rabble as maggots to carrion. Twelve levels of carefully architectured human construction suddenly thrust outwards in a desperate attempt to contain the colony of the sufferers. The Maggots had tunnelled haphazardly through the earth like grubs desperately gnawing through flesh to keep themselves alive. It was a growth that moved like a cancer yet ironically held the life that held humanity back from extinction. In a brief time, The City had exploded into a dark warren; a bewildering hive of creaking metal where survivors didn't live--they lurked.
Survivors nestled themselves among shadows in the long, wide corridors that were The City. They sat huddled, clutching blankets or themselves in desperate attempts to keep out the fear. The dark was barely pushed back by the wearily flickering, sparsely placed electric lanterns. Few people moved in the dark; the only reason for it was food. Occasional rustles of movement were heard by the grotesquely deformed ears of survivors; but more often the alert ears heard the frightening shrieks of the insane reverberating along the metal walls. Yet, no matter what came from outside, Survivors forever heard the sounds in their own heads. There were quiet whispering voices that spurred them into deviancy--prompted them to thrust a knife between the shoulder blades of the already dead, or to gnaw at their own hands. And even the lucky who had no voices perenially heard their own tense heart-beat.
While survivors could still hear sound, they no longer smelt the foul sour odour of themselves; nor did they feel the acrid smoke that forever stung their noses. The smoke billowed from fires lit by those with enough wits to know they had to keep warm. Around the flaming bundles of clothes, survivors rocked gently back and forth. The more sane hummed to themselves ancient songs or rhymes. None could remember when they had learnt the songs. References to time had no meaning. Time was inconsequential. They had eternity to sit and hum.
This was The City.