Silently, I walked across the wasteland that my world had become. Broken and ransacked buildings, and rusted cars filled with skeletons were all I ever seem to find. Nature had reclaimed some of the world, as trees sprouted up acting as natural supports for some of the ruined buildings. That was all I ever seemed to find for life, yet part of me hoped there were other survivors somewhere. Trying to break the silence I whistled some as I walked up a set of stairs. Hopefully the noise would draw something or someone out of hiding.
This reads more like the beginning of a story rather than a story. The narrator is clear, the setting is clear, but where is the conflict?
Cinda
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Part of me is trying to get back into writing short strories and this my way to experiment some.
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