i just started writing.... fiction
so i liked 100 years of solitude. i wanted to try an opening sequence thats sorta similar in a few ways... its prob crap, its def not finished, its def gonna ammount to nothing but here it is
this is the second version, a little better
At half past 8 on a foggy Saturday morning they crossed the Rance border into a sleepy hermetically sealed suburb encased in shrubbery between the city of oro and the jagged slopes of the oreo mountains. Their rations had run out after three weeks and two days of marching and after surviving on the mere thought of food for nearly a month even their mental rations of rice and beans had perished. They began to eat their names to stay alive, first feasting on the capitol S's and H's the lowercase a's and e's until gradually they forgot who they were. Memories were next. The bitter ones were swallowed down like a black coffee woke up their tired souls. The sweet marshmellow fluff of their grandmother's gardens, the kisses of their first love and the last lingering look they had taken at their homes were cooked and served with the utmost care and reverence. There was scarcely a beaten traveler that did not shed a tear as they sat down to eat and saw a small part of a comrade's life writhing helplessly before him on his plate. The thick steaks of carnal lust and unfulfilled loves only seemed to make people hungrier so they were kept locked away deep within as they had always been.
Of what they had not eaten very little remained but it was, however, just enough to remember what caused their exodus. They could always put the images back together and piece together at least part of their story.
They had fled, in a long single file line facing away from the dust of explosions and Kalashnikov fire that had cut through their air and filtered into their lungs during the long years of a war. Before their faces had shown the fatigue of hunger, the men had grown beards to hide the marks the fight for what remained of their home had carved into them. The third imperial army or Amiga now reigned over the windy desert that had once been a home to the ebb and flow of their secluded domestic lives.
Amiga was one name they could not eat, one that burned like a hot coal of hate somewhere between their amygdala and their left temporal lobe and scalded their tongues and throats of those among them foolish enough to try and swallow it to forget. It burned like so many of the oily rags they had stuffed into bottles to throw at tanks. It burned like the gallons of napalm and the phosphorus rounds and so many villages that Amiga had laid waste to. The fires of hell were raging in their homeland and though they could never forgive themselves for abandoning it they would surely have been consumed by the flames had they stayed.
When they had reached the peak of the mountains they first looked down at the glimmering city of oro and then left and right at the the endless snow white caps that cut through the sky like gnashing teeth. They were awestruck. As they made their way down the slopes, first through the snow and then the rocks and dirt their gaze was constantly fixed on oro. The shimmering answer to all their longing, the end to their journey. They entered the suburbs in Rance.
As impossible as it may seem to our weary band of travelers who were just arriving, almost everyone who had a pulse in oro was anxious to leave. The citizens of oro had long concluded that the limit of the civilized world lay where those mountains jutted into the clouds and had lived within their stony jaws dreaming about the endless virgin forests of the amazon, the grey-blue of the swaying pacific and the excitement they might hold. They were bored, irritable, restless and impatient. Things would soon change.
this is the second version, a little better
At half past 8 on a foggy Saturday morning they crossed the Rance border into a sleepy hermetically sealed suburb encased in shrubbery between the city of oro and the jagged slopes of the oreo mountains. Their rations had run out after three weeks and two days of marching and after surviving on the mere thought of food for nearly a month even their mental rations of rice and beans had perished. They began to eat their names to stay alive, first feasting on the capitol S's and H's the lowercase a's and e's until gradually they forgot who they were. Memories were next. The bitter ones were swallowed down like a black coffee woke up their tired souls. The sweet marshmellow fluff of their grandmother's gardens, the kisses of their first love and the last lingering look they had taken at their homes were cooked and served with the utmost care and reverence. There was scarcely a beaten traveler that did not shed a tear as they sat down to eat and saw a small part of a comrade's life writhing helplessly before him on his plate. The thick steaks of carnal lust and unfulfilled loves only seemed to make people hungrier so they were kept locked away deep within as they had always been.
Of what they had not eaten very little remained but it was, however, just enough to remember what caused their exodus. They could always put the images back together and piece together at least part of their story.
They had fled, in a long single file line facing away from the dust of explosions and Kalashnikov fire that had cut through their air and filtered into their lungs during the long years of a war. Before their faces had shown the fatigue of hunger, the men had grown beards to hide the marks the fight for what remained of their home had carved into them. The third imperial army or Amiga now reigned over the windy desert that had once been a home to the ebb and flow of their secluded domestic lives.
Amiga was one name they could not eat, one that burned like a hot coal of hate somewhere between their amygdala and their left temporal lobe and scalded their tongues and throats of those among them foolish enough to try and swallow it to forget. It burned like so many of the oily rags they had stuffed into bottles to throw at tanks. It burned like the gallons of napalm and the phosphorus rounds and so many villages that Amiga had laid waste to. The fires of hell were raging in their homeland and though they could never forgive themselves for abandoning it they would surely have been consumed by the flames had they stayed.
When they had reached the peak of the mountains they first looked down at the glimmering city of oro and then left and right at the the endless snow white caps that cut through the sky like gnashing teeth. They were awestruck. As they made their way down the slopes, first through the snow and then the rocks and dirt their gaze was constantly fixed on oro. The shimmering answer to all their longing, the end to their journey. They entered the suburbs in Rance.
As impossible as it may seem to our weary band of travelers who were just arriving, almost everyone who had a pulse in oro was anxious to leave. The citizens of oro had long concluded that the limit of the civilized world lay where those mountains jutted into the clouds and had lived within their stony jaws dreaming about the endless virgin forests of the amazon, the grey-blue of the swaying pacific and the excitement they might hold. They were bored, irritable, restless and impatient. Things would soon change.