Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)The year is 2046 and I am making some spaghetti. The sauce, made from genuine tomatoes canned at Agropom, is simmering nicely on the portable stovetop, releasing an appetizing aroma into the room. The corrugated steel roof is drumming with rain, the metal popping as if from falling stones. Outside I can hear the water pelting into the fens and the swamp-water. I am awash in the environment. The natural world has risen up and resumed its prominent place before everything, now that the days of the cities of ordered roads and picket-fence houses have come to an end. A uniform brutality, with its own kind of beauty, has re-asserted itself. The sauce pops. I stir it absentmindedly. The cabin I live in is single-room, but comfortable, with a small chimney, some windows that can be shuttered, rifle slits.
I hear howling over the moor, and step to the doorway to listen. Could just be wolves hunting. Could be a night-gaunt carrying off a villager of nearby Akra who stumbled too far into the forest. There's no reply to the cry, and I return to my in-progress Italian meal, dumping the noodles into a coriander as the steam bursts into a thick wet cloud, fogging my glasses.
Tin bowl, spaghetti slopped in, sauce ladled atop, a pungent sprinkling of synthetic basil atop the ruddy meal, and just as I lift the first steaming forkful to my mouth the unmistakable rattle of small arms fire pierces the rainy atmosphere, close enough to set my shoddily-installed fillings jangling, that I got done at the dentist in Agropom last year. I twist off the heat, set my bowl down, and in two steps am at the doorway with weapon in hand, pulling a rain slicker over my head.
The report repeats, and I see flashes of muzzle flare off the thickly packed evergreen pines of Michigan, turning the falling droplets into frozen silver sheens about an eighth of a mile down the forest path from my domicile. I scramble down an embankment, just as a fresh flurry of automatic fire rattles off, and I see, illuminated in the flare of the gun, your character, bent low behind cover, firing at something in the dark. I flick the safety off and take up a defensive position slightly behind you and uphill, squinting into the darkness to see what you're firing at.
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Hey, I'd like to play a post-apocalyptic setting with one other writer. I'd like to do a bit of world-building together before we start (what's your character fighting? How did the world end? Etc.) I'm open to a political story, involving the small settlements, to a survival story, to a more depraved narrative involving slavers.
My own character could be a retired leader of the settlement, or a self-sufficient loner.
What I want is rich description and nuanced characters. A slow-burn eroticism. I'm comfortable playing multiple characters, and would prefer it if my partner were, too. Please reach out if any of this sounds interesting.
I hear howling over the moor, and step to the doorway to listen. Could just be wolves hunting. Could be a night-gaunt carrying off a villager of nearby Akra who stumbled too far into the forest. There's no reply to the cry, and I return to my in-progress Italian meal, dumping the noodles into a coriander as the steam bursts into a thick wet cloud, fogging my glasses.
Tin bowl, spaghetti slopped in, sauce ladled atop, a pungent sprinkling of synthetic basil atop the ruddy meal, and just as I lift the first steaming forkful to my mouth the unmistakable rattle of small arms fire pierces the rainy atmosphere, close enough to set my shoddily-installed fillings jangling, that I got done at the dentist in Agropom last year. I twist off the heat, set my bowl down, and in two steps am at the doorway with weapon in hand, pulling a rain slicker over my head.
The report repeats, and I see flashes of muzzle flare off the thickly packed evergreen pines of Michigan, turning the falling droplets into frozen silver sheens about an eighth of a mile down the forest path from my domicile. I scramble down an embankment, just as a fresh flurry of automatic fire rattles off, and I see, illuminated in the flare of the gun, your character, bent low behind cover, firing at something in the dark. I flick the safety off and take up a defensive position slightly behind you and uphill, squinting into the darkness to see what you're firing at.
-----\-----
Hey, I'd like to play a post-apocalyptic setting with one other writer. I'd like to do a bit of world-building together before we start (what's your character fighting? How did the world end? Etc.) I'm open to a political story, involving the small settlements, to a survival story, to a more depraved narrative involving slavers.
My own character could be a retired leader of the settlement, or a self-sufficient loner.
What I want is rich description and nuanced characters. A slow-burn eroticism. I'm comfortable playing multiple characters, and would prefer it if my partner were, too. Please reach out if any of this sounds interesting.
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