Short Story: Final Draft

A World Apart

It was in the evening that the great garbage haulers slowed, their stream-engines whinnying down in unison and the last tugging influence of inertia pulling them in a silent drift. The garbage men and women of those gargantuan, whale-shaped ships all tuned in to a transmission, nervous.

It would be the most important message they would ever hear.

The sets crackled to life and a fuzzy face slowly sharpened into clarity. It was a familiar face to those garbage men and women watching, grizzled and tired with deep lines dug like trenches, marks of the working man. Nodding heads and murmurs rippled in approval throughout the attending people.

'Good evening,' it said, with a chilling finality and the hairs of the collective pricked to attention. 'My name is John Bishop and I am here to tell you: that time has come.' The hearts of every garbage man and woman skipped, for every garbage man and woman was watching.

Sonnet

Earth! You Have Not Been Forgotten

T'was the light that split the night a crackling
As the pitter-patter rain drops did soak
And the boom that sent the hounds a cowering
The rivers; currents flowed into a choke

And man upon his pedestal did stand
To build his empire further skyward still
His weathered stilts dug deep in bedrock sand
Man made roots clasped to mankind's iron will

As though the stars shine and beckon closer
He still retires when the winds do howl
For mother nature could yet be harsher
And so in the storm he does don his cowl

Though the stars are his true destination
She that birthed him has not be forgotten

Short Story: Full Draft

It was in the evening that the great garbage haulers slowed, their stream-engines whinnying down in unison. The last tugging influence of inertia pulled them in a silent, slow drift. The garbage men and women of those gargantuan, whale-shaped ships all tuned in to a transmission, nervous.

It would be the most important message they would ever hear.

The sets crackled to life and a fuzzy face slowly sharpened into clarity. It was a familiar face to those garbage men and women watching, grizzled and tired with deep lines dug like trenches, marks of the working man. Nodding heads and murmurs rippled in approval throughout the attending people.

'Good evening,' it said, with a chilling finality and the hairs of the collective pricked to attention. 'My name is John Bishop and I am here to tell you: that time has come.' The hearts of every garbage man and woman skipped, for every garbage man and woman was watching.

Another Poem

no rhyming scheme; iambic quadrametre

Skipped, she once did, from star to star
Discovering worlds near and far.
She and her crew were once but one;
Interlocked, intertwined; in love.

Robbed of her were her beloved!
Stripped of them she was naked, bare!

Incomplete, she cried her yearning
It trembled stars, planets alike
A universe weeping with her.
She searches still, a glimmer: hope!
The candle in her night, guiding.

And those who took from her suffer
Enveloped in a sadness.

A Poem

sestet; iambic trimetre

Mountains, they will not move
Or yield to human might.
Its face, a weathered groove
Is not for human sight.
Its rivers, streams and trees...
Humans, we exploit these!

The seas, so full of life
Have ended up beneath
A human, hand-held knife,
One which we'll never sheath!
With reckless abandon
We fish the seas barren.

(some cheating going on in those last two lines)

Short Story: Draft #1, Part #1 (885 words)

It was in the evening that the great garbage haulers slowed, their stream-engines whinnying down in unison to come to a crawl before entering the slight drift of silence, the last tugging influence of inertia. The garbage men and women of those gargantuan, whale-shaped ships all tuned in to a transmission with nervous anticipation and tentative fear.

It would be the most important message they would ever hear.

The sets crackled to life and a fuzzy face slowly sharpened into clarity. It was a familiar face to those garbage men and women watching, grizzled and tired with deep lines dug like trenches, marks of the working man. Nodding heads and murmurs rippled in approval throughout the attending people, all on their respective garbage ships, watching the transmission as garbage men and women, listening to the leader of the Garbage People's Union.

'Good evening,' it said, with a chilling finality and the hairs of the collective pricked to attention. ' My name is John Bishop and I am here to tell you: that time has come.' He stared deep into the hearts and minds of every garbage man and woman, for every garbage man and woman was watching, their children at their sides. Husbands and wives clasped hands. Parents and children shared touch. Friends and loved ones exchanged comforting glances.