So I've been trying to write a novel for years. I have a million and one ideas in my head and I've only ever got to starting a dozen or so. Recently I decided to take some of my favourite ideas and make them into a collection of short stories. The following is one that before deciding to shorten it I could only get through a sentence or two. Upon making my decision this came out in 10 minutes. I know where I want the story to head I've just got to get it there. Figured I'd upload it. I know it doesn't give much away but for this story that's kind of the point. The protagonist is nameless and there is no antagonist which poses some difficulties. Anyway, enjoy... I hope.
Oh and no it's not about zombies..
THE STATUES OF US
It was early morning when the man awoke. He wasn't quite sure what time. He'd stopped keeping track a few years back. He'd stopped doing a lot of things, even talking. There just didn't seem much point. The only reason he got up in the morning was to eat and shit. And drink. Oh yes he loved a good drink. Before the event he'd been a social drinker, now, between the nightmares and the silence. He couldn't sleep without it.
The silence was deafening.
It was the apotheosis of every second of silence since the beginning, he thought. Then he brushed the thought aside.
His eyes struggled to open, blinded by the morning sun. His head throbbed and his throat was dry thanks to the bottle of single malt he'd devoured the night before. He pulled himself to his feet and looked around to find himself on the kitchen floor of a camper van. Well… kitchen slash living room slash a bit too close to the bog. He'd stolen it a day ago from a petrol station just off the motorway.
Is it still stealing if the the owner is dead? He wondered.
Are laws moot if there's no body of law to enforce them?
He set the kettle to work on some coffee and sat staring at the long road ahead of him. There was very few crashes he noticed. It seemed that when the event happened a lot of the vehicles just came to a natural stop. Maybe in their final moments, out of some strange instinct, people knew to ease off the accelerator. The kettle whistled and the man poured himself a comically sized mug of it.
The world might be fucked, he thought.
But there was still no better smell than morning coffee.
He knocked back the coffee, wiping the stray drops from his overgrown beard and set off down the motorway.