| |
1st person, present tense; + backstory |
|
They always sorta hated me. They being the government, that is. I mean, I did technically spray-paint obscenities about their leadership on at least half of the buildings in this forsaken city at one point or another— but, in my defense, they asked for it. If they didn't suck, I would never have wrote it on their front door, and we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with.
But I don't think it's the graffiti that has them after me this time.
No— it's the little stunt I pulled last night. I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking, really. There was me, holding that new beam gun I bought with the money I'd pickpocketed from some hoity-toity guy at the casino. There was that anti-rebel politician and government official, Shem Tallis, giving his bajillionth live speech on the importance of eradicating rebellious behavior and saving the country from what he called inevitable chaos if any of the rebels— i.e., me— were allowed to continue expressing their discontent. There was that shot of alcohol that I wasn't supposed to have because I don't have a tolerance for that crap, making my head all woozy and my thoughts a bit more blurry. Then there was the perfect vantage point, the slightly-drunken anger rising up in me as I raised the site to line up directly with Shem's left eye, my shaky finger hovering precariously over the trigger, that evil smirk that quirked the corner of his mouth that finally set me over the edge—
Well, you get the idea. I put a bullet through the brain of a man who had more power than I ever dreamed of, and now the government is majorly ticked off. At least, I assume they are. I realized, when Shem's body crumpled to the ground and I saw all the blood, that I probably should've thought this through a little more before I decided to become an unofficial assassin. I probably made the rebels as a whole look even worse in the long run— but, I'm an idiot, and I can't fix that now. What's done is done. The next step is to try not to die.
The evening air is cool and crisp as I stand in one of the darkened back-alleys, a place I'm familiar with, staring at the walls around me. The streets are fairly crowded, but down here in this alley, there's not a soul to be seen— aside from myself, and the scraggly cat behind me licking his own foot. Around me, the walls are all painted an ugly black color— an ugly black color that has been used to cover up my previous work. Last month, I spent hours covering these walls in beautiful designs (and the occasional anti-propaganda message), and I was proud of it. But about a week ago, the authorities had it all black over— a stupid attempt to destroy my message.
One day, the government may take my life, but I will never let them take my spirit. Which is why I've come to retaliate, with a shoulder-bag chock full of fresh cans of neon spray paint.
The cans clatter against one another as I drop the bag to the ground, the resounding thud echoing off of the walls around me. I hum to myself as I stoop the next to the bag and undo the zipper, peering inside at my cargo. Ah, yes. Perfection. Excitement tingles inside of me already as I try to decide which colors will go best with what I have to say— and what exactly it is that I want to say today. It should be important, considering the fact that I'm practically a fugitive and any day could be my last.
Then again, that's a pretty good reason not to waste time thinking about it— so I grab a bright green can, give it a good shake, and get to work.
| |
3rd person, past tense; + dialogue |
|
Preparation was the key to survival— and that was why Maxim triple-checked his backpack to make sure he was fully armed and had all of the needed supplied. It certainly wasn't because he wished to stall until as late as possible in order to have an acceptable excuse to delay leaving the safety of his protective bunker. No, no, no. That would be ridiculous.
Especially considering how low he was getting on supplies.
Maxim mentally checked off the last item on his list and let out a sigh, slowly standing upright and hefting his heavy backpack up. He grunted lightly as the strap dug into his shoulder, but as he was thoroughly unwilling to depart with any of the things he'd packed, there was nothing to be done about it. He glanced around once to make sure he hadn't dropped anything important— which he hadn't. Was that it, then? He had everything? Yes?
"Alright, Barnabas—" Maxim spun around to face a large clear tank, which housed the only other living creature in his bunker— a turtle. "I guess it's time for me to be off. Is there anything I'm forgetting?"
Barnabas did not reply. He was too stuck-up to even poke his head out of his shell. Or maybe he was just dead.
"No? Well, alright then."
Maxim swallowed, glancing towards the metal ladder that led up to the bunker's hatch door. Was it just him, or was it more ominous than usual? He readjusted his glasses— thin silver frames, with tape holding them together at the bridge and smudges lenses— and walked over to it. It had been quite some time since he had left the bunker, as he had been avoiding that sort of escapade for awhile. After all, why would he want to go out into that savage world when he could be perfectly content in here, watching the movie Back to the Future over and over again on the old DVD player he had salvaged and eating dried meat? The answer was simple: if he didn't restock his supplies, he wouldn't be able to enjoy his comforts for much longer.
He climbed up the ladder with all of the enthusiasm of a depressed sloth— though with his long, gangling limbs, it really didn't take long for him to reach the hatch. How unfortunate.
With one hand, he reached up and entered the number into keypad lock, dreading the resounding beep that informed him the lock had been deactivated.
This was it. He wasn't really ready at all, but he was as ready as he would ever be.
He reached up, slowly pushed the hatch open, and peered out at the world beyond. A ravaged world, possibility filled with psychopaths and cannibals and wild animals. But it did not matter what it was filled with, because Maxim would have to venture out into it regardless.
So he did, clambering through the open hatch. He scraped his knee against the ground and struggled a bit, what with his annoyingly heavy backpack and his overall ungraceful nature. Once he was out, he made sure to close the hatch and reactive the lock, so that his supplies and Barnabas would be protected until he returned.
Not all of my posts are this long, but I try to make them at least 3-5 sentences at the minimum. I don't usually write in 1st person, present, because I generally prefer 3rd, but I can easily do either if needed. Also— you are a really great writer and I like Flynn. XD
