Story Inkling: A story I'm too lazy to continue

Hey all, Exotic_Wheat-FlourMix here, with a 'lil short story I put together for a dystopian writing project in AP Lang in late June.
First entry; putting this up to get critique, and to see if I should actually finish it or not. Feel free to ask about the backstory, plot, characters, etc. I'm interested to know specifics: what you liked, what you disliked. Thanks in advance for reading. :L

Edit: yes, I know the dialogue's rather forced and crappy, just (puts sunglasses on) deal with it.


Just a few notes about the universe (or a bit of a backstory): The story takes place on a foreign world in the far future; so far in the future in fact, that technology is interpreted as a magic of sorts. You see, when mankind's colossal colony ships appeared in planetary orbit via wormhole, it collapsed behind them. They found the surface on planet below to be inhospitable; plagued with ion storms so severe it would erode scouting probes in mere moments. Days became months as the hulking colony ships slowly rotated the planet, trying to wait out the electrical inferno that encompassed the entire sphere. At long last, with their supplies low and their social structure on the verge of collapse, they chose to break through a previously identified weak spot in the storm. As feeble as the storm was, seven ships were lost as their hulls imploded from the pressure or were ripped apart by the fierce winds like paper. Arcs of blue energy danced along sleek chrome sides as some ships lost power, the storm draining them of energy like a vampire.
Landing (somewhat) successfully, the crews of the surviving three ships, the Mindora, Sapphira, and the Argo, sought refuge in the deep underground. As if the price they had paid for safety was not enough, most, if not all electrically powered technology was drained beyond repair.
Centuries passed before the great storms began to dissipate. When the 'Vaulters' as they had aptly named themselves, emerged from their great underground citadels, the had no knowledge of how to reconstruct electrical based technology at all, save for a small sect of 'cultists' who had come to worship the small scraps of now ancient technology left. Eventually, the became so powerful that they were able to organize a successful coup (for no other reason of than PLOT ADVANCEMENT11!!!!!1), creating a totalitarian theocracy in it's place.

Alright, I'll get on with it.

I N K L I N G
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The double arched windows admit a faint cacophony of smells into my chambers, among them the eye-watering stench of smoke, from the forges nearby. The perfumed hallways, corridors, and rooms of the palace create a stark contrast with the odor of sewage and filth. It’s nearly indistinct against the light fragrance of berries and flowers and other summer things, but it’s still there.

Up this high, you can see the entire Western quarter of the city; but that’s only on the clearest of days, like today. And my cramped quarters aren’t even near the top. White plastered buildings with brownish-red trimming dot the skyline. Most of them are only a few stories high. The temples and government facilities are taller, their silhouettes standing out against the background of the blue sky. Look closely enough, and you can see the people, swarming over the city, like the way ants swarm over a morsel of food. That’s us. We each have a job to do, a role to play.


I’m an Inkling.

Of course, that’s not the official term, but I like it. It fits, somehow.

Scribes are one of the few who can read in a city of millions, and it’s their duty to teach the younger generations of apprentices. Like me.

My place is cramped. Small, petite, like I am. I sit on my bed, in the room’s top-left corner, letting the cool red satin embrace my bare feet. My boots sit where I’ve thrown them, on the woven embroidered rug below. It’s a nice touch, also red, contrasting with the dark oak wooden floorboards beneath it. Across the width of the room, to the far left, lie shelves crammed with dusty old books and volumes in leather-bound covers: red blue, dark brown. A few are tomes scrawled in unreadable glyphs and texts. Next to the the bookshelves, by the door is the wardrobe: oak, adorned with darker oaken handles and knobs.

The room has two tables: one is right next to the head of the bed, carved out of a solid piece of wood, draped with a square sheet of blue and gold satin. The other lies in the far back corner. It’s much plainer than it’s counterpart; just a sturdy wooden slab supported by four legs, accompanied by a single chair. Half a slice of bread with cheese sits uneaten upon it. Above the plain table is the mirror, a polished oval sheet, enwreathed by some sort of intricately engraved, ornate golden frame. The gold’s fake, of course, probably leaf. I can see myself in the mirror from here; strangely well, in fact, as if my image was somehow enlarged in it. I look. An angelic face, coupled with long, black hair. A spray of freckles against pale skin and green eyes. Perfect figure, or so I've been told. That’s me.

The sheets entice me. Hot weather leads to drowsiness. slowly brushing the black hair out of my face, I clutch the writing tablet closer to my chest. It’s simple; wooden, half an inch thick. Strangely light. Transcription is such boring work. It would be nice to go out there, beyond the confines of the palace, for more than a few hours. Beyond the confines of the city walls, even. The charcoal pencil falls into my lap. The cool bed invites me, the sheets become more and more appealing with each passing second. I don’t move; don’t try to fight. The sleep swallows me whole, like some sort of greedy, ravenous monster. I belong to sleep now, and I let it have it’s way with me.


I awake to the sound of screaming. Fearful shouting; the village is on fire. It leaps from house to house like an unsatisfied animal; flaming orange and red fingers lick the dark sky. The pouring rain does little to quench the fire’s thirst. Cold wind kisses my cheek, whips my hair to the left; I’m outside. People panically steam back and forth along thin dirt roads and thinner alleyways, past small, squarish one-to-two story houses of grey and black metal. Thunder rocks the sky and lightning streaks along after it. Across the street, a figure looking over his shoulder trips over a two story shop’s awning stand, sending him sprawling into a mountain of boxes. he doesn’t move as the red awning, now on fire, slowly flutters down and drapes over him. I don’t move, perhaps frozen in shock. I’m not sure. Others run past, carrying trunks, belongings, bags and sacks slung over shoulders; a woman in her forties carrying three kids with some sort of makeshift rig. There’s no where else to go, though. We’re right up against the cliffs, on all three sides, with the taller buildings to the back of the town built directly into the mountains. An almost vertical climb; they go straight up, up, up. Supposed to be easier to defend. I can see the wall from here, a massive four stories, black, sleek and slanted, breached and smoking in several places. Now the very same mountains meant to protect and shelter us loom overhead, casting ominous, nightmarish shadows down on our heads. There is no escape. There is no escape. The frantic running, screaming, never seems to end. Even though it’s probably a few seconds. A few minutes.

A face appears in front of me, a full, red-bearded man in his thirties, a black leather satchel bag slung over his shoulder. A black metal vambrace extends from his right elbow to his hand, holding a thinly bladed sword, slick with blood. I feel faint. None of this is happening; none of this is real. “Mira!”, he shouts over the din, the hiss of falling rain. His breath fogs the air as he breathes heavily, in, out; in, out. “What are you doing outside?!” Why does this man care? How does he know my name? I don’t know him, do I? I squint at him confusedly; I open my mouth to respond, but he speaks first. “Never mind”, he sighs loudly. Noises come from the alleyway behind him. Barking; the heavy tramping of metal-coated feet. “Give this to your father”, he says hurriedly, pressing, or more accurately, shoving, a thickly covered blue tome to my chest. I secure it with two hands, almost involuntarily. “Go, Inside now, Hurry!”, red-beard shouts again. He throws open the wooden door behind me, pushing me inside with a small yelp.

I stumble around the dimly lit interior I find myself in. Candles make shadows dance across the long and thin dark blue tiles that form our floor. The ceiling gives just enough space to stand upright in. As with most of the houses here, there’s more room underground--a throwback to our roots.

I don’t know how I know this. I’ve never been here before, seen any of these people before yet everything feels strangely familiar, like a long lost dream. I can remember the low, brown table in the center of the room, surrounded by silken cushions on a rug. On it, a clay bowl of softly smoking incense; the bookcases on either side; I stagger towards the ladder in the room after, still recovering from the shove I had received earlier. I can hear the yelling and screaming from outside. I clutch the book to my chest like it’s worth my life; for all I know, it may as well be. I grab hold of the ladder’s steel bars, the tome secure under my left arm. The ladder only goes one way, down, to the floor below. I descend, feeling the cold of each rung seep into me as I grasp them. I reach the bottom; turn around, father’s at the back of the room, back towards me, huddling over some sort of old grate casing. Mother’s by him, hurriedly throwing miscellaneous scraps of clothing into sacks; packing our belongings.


“D-Dad?” I stammer, almost too quietly. He turns, and I can see that the metal vent grate has been pulled off; his fingers are caked in dirt and blood. “What is it child?”, he asks. His voice soothes me, and I want to sink into his arms, forget the horrors seen outside. I show him the book; his brow furrows as he lifts it from my outstretched hands. He flips through it quickly, and his face becomes more and more constrained, as he strokes his full beard of black hair. His green eyes, almost concealed by his wrinkly eyelids, fly over the text. I help mother pack, as we kneel on the cold floor, frantically pooling items into bags, one after another. Actions feel fluid, like I’m a stranger in my own body, watching my arms, hands, and fingers nimbly fold and tuck behind a glazed pair of eyes.


The book shuts with a heavy thud, dust escaping from old, yellowed pages. There’s a frantic look in his eyes. He’s frozen, in what looks like.. disbelief? My mother stands. “Artyom, what is it? What’s wrong?”, she asks delicately.

Before he can open his mouth to respond, there’s a thundering crash from above ..

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Yeah. As far as I got.

 

Hey man, it ain't under the literature section for nothin' XP

Danke, danke. If I might ask, anything you liked specifically?

 

Ahaha, I'll try my best, but no promises on an official publication. x__x

 

Glad you found it enjoyable; I aim to please.