Ryduce
04-25-2006, 03:34 PM
First off let me say that I am a TERRIBLE writer,and I'm actually kind of scared to show this to you this because I'm so shy about my writing skills .Please be honest,but not brutal.I hope you enjoy.
The town of Jameson is situated in the middle of the Smoky Mountains. The land itself is stunningly beautiful with a diverse array of flora and fauna. There are rolling hills and meadows with a myriad of indigenous rhododendron. Pink, purple, and orange wildflowers make the soft hills seem almost tide-like, rising and falling until they reach the foothills of the serene peaks of the Smokies. The immense mountains create a dazzling blue opposition to the multicolored elegance of the meadows below. Aside from being aesthetically pleasing, Jameson and it’s surrounding areas are a geological oddity. The town and it’s three thousand inhabitants reside in a small depression, or a crater, at the foothills of two great mountains. The confluence of these two mountains create a valley, which became a great river as a result of thousands of years of rainfall. The river is a quarter of a mile wide, and is fed by dozens of streams along the mountain. The streams sprawl over the vast terrain like veins to the artery that is the river, beating on through the heart of Jameson.
Storms had come in from the South and there was a tepid drizzle of rain falling in a paradoxical contrast to the cold softness of the ground. The resounding clash of thunder could be heard coming from far off in the distance. It echoed throughout the town, and then dissipated back to nothingness.
The thunder had caused Daniel Whitmore to stir from his late afternoon nap. His dark brown hair laid over his head as he stared at the ceiling listening to the monotonous pitter patter of rain. For reasons unknown to him, storms such as these frightened him
ever since he was a child. The mere thought of rain had brought an indescribable amount of dread upon him, and he winced with fear at the first sound of thunder. The current storms had induced a state of paranoia in Daniel. He was pacing about the house trying to occupy his mind from the terror outside.
Meanwhile, a group of teenage boys had congregated outside of
Daniel’s window.
They found it quite humorous to watch this tall lanky framed middle aged man prancing throughout the house.
“What is that old fool doing?” one asked.
“Whenever it rains he does this.” replied the other.
Just then a booming clash of thunder reverberated throughout the land and Daniel ran to his room where he was paralyzed with fear. The boys just chuckled and walked off.
“That old fool thinks the rain is gonna kill em.”one boy snickered.
The rain was falling even heavier the next morning and Daniel was watching it through his window. Though terrified, he was determined to go to work that day. His family had owned a grocery store in the center of town for close to 60 years, and his Grandfather had often told him as a little boy that it was only thing the family had ever owned. Daniel took great pride in running the store, and so he braved the rain for the sake of his families name. He proceeded through his yard, though it now resembled a swamp, to his neighbors. They were packing things into their car fastidiously, preparing to leave.
“Where ya heading to?’ Daniel questioned.
“The water level of the river is too high.” he said.
“It isn’t safe to be here.”
“That river aint flooded in decades.” responded Daniel.
“I aint taking no chances, and that’s why were heading to Georgia till these storms pass.” he retorted.
The two men exchanged their goodbyes and Daniel continued off for work. He stopped and gazed in awe of the Jameson river, for it seemingly stretched on for eternity. But then he noticed something that filled him with an incredible horror. The once placid river was swelling and growing angry.
The wind was whipping through Jameson with the fury of a dozen freight trains. The rain was coming down in torrents, and the river slowly consumed the town. Daniel had taken refuge in his attic, but he seriously doubted if it would sufficiently protect him from the still rising water. The fear had taken over him, and it felt as though his chest would cave in. He had spent hours in his attic sobbing because he was cold, wet, and frightened. He wept himself to sleep only to be awakened by the sound of screams that were not his own. There were terribly frantic screams just outside his house that seemed to repeat in his mind infinitely. He bore a hole through his roof to investigate the cause of these screams that were tormenting him, but what he saw was much more heartbreaking than what he heard.
A small girl of only six or seven years old was clutching to a tree with every ounce of herself. The small sundress she wore had been tattered to pieces by the fierceness of the water rolling over her. Her blonde hair was brown with mud, her eyes were swollen with tears, and her face was contorted by terror. It was at that moment that fear was no longer an emotion that Daniel Whitmore knew. With a rope tied across his waist he dove in. The water rushed over him, and he was helpless. He battled it though. He fought against the current until every muscle in his body burned. He felt as thought his whole body would burst, but still he battled. He inched closer and closer to the little girl. The river continued to roar violently until at last he reached the end of his rope. It was not long enough, and the little girl was swept into the abyss.
When the river receded the town no longer existed. It was a barren wasteland of mud and debris. The few who survived walked about the rubble looking for their belongings or loved ones. Daniel’s eyes were filled with despair. He felt as though all hope was lost, and he hung his head to cry. But when he did he saw something so unimaginable and beautiful that his tears faded away. Amongst all the destruction and devastation a rose was protruding from the debris. He was mesmerized, not because of its vivid hue, but because it survived. It had prevailed, and so could he. And at that moment the sun peaked over the clouds and a brilliant luminosity covered Jameson.
Life, like the river, has swallowed men up and left no remnant of their existence. Still, there is hope. There is always hope. There is no destruction so massive as to exhaust the infinite hope of the human heart. It could rain for a hundred years or a hundred centuries, but as long as there is life there is hope. And Life, like the river, rolls on evermore.
The town of Jameson is situated in the middle of the Smoky Mountains. The land itself is stunningly beautiful with a diverse array of flora and fauna. There are rolling hills and meadows with a myriad of indigenous rhododendron. Pink, purple, and orange wildflowers make the soft hills seem almost tide-like, rising and falling until they reach the foothills of the serene peaks of the Smokies. The immense mountains create a dazzling blue opposition to the multicolored elegance of the meadows below. Aside from being aesthetically pleasing, Jameson and it’s surrounding areas are a geological oddity. The town and it’s three thousand inhabitants reside in a small depression, or a crater, at the foothills of two great mountains. The confluence of these two mountains create a valley, which became a great river as a result of thousands of years of rainfall. The river is a quarter of a mile wide, and is fed by dozens of streams along the mountain. The streams sprawl over the vast terrain like veins to the artery that is the river, beating on through the heart of Jameson.
Storms had come in from the South and there was a tepid drizzle of rain falling in a paradoxical contrast to the cold softness of the ground. The resounding clash of thunder could be heard coming from far off in the distance. It echoed throughout the town, and then dissipated back to nothingness.
The thunder had caused Daniel Whitmore to stir from his late afternoon nap. His dark brown hair laid over his head as he stared at the ceiling listening to the monotonous pitter patter of rain. For reasons unknown to him, storms such as these frightened him
ever since he was a child. The mere thought of rain had brought an indescribable amount of dread upon him, and he winced with fear at the first sound of thunder. The current storms had induced a state of paranoia in Daniel. He was pacing about the house trying to occupy his mind from the terror outside.
Meanwhile, a group of teenage boys had congregated outside of
Daniel’s window.
They found it quite humorous to watch this tall lanky framed middle aged man prancing throughout the house.
“What is that old fool doing?” one asked.
“Whenever it rains he does this.” replied the other.
Just then a booming clash of thunder reverberated throughout the land and Daniel ran to his room where he was paralyzed with fear. The boys just chuckled and walked off.
“That old fool thinks the rain is gonna kill em.”one boy snickered.
The rain was falling even heavier the next morning and Daniel was watching it through his window. Though terrified, he was determined to go to work that day. His family had owned a grocery store in the center of town for close to 60 years, and his Grandfather had often told him as a little boy that it was only thing the family had ever owned. Daniel took great pride in running the store, and so he braved the rain for the sake of his families name. He proceeded through his yard, though it now resembled a swamp, to his neighbors. They were packing things into their car fastidiously, preparing to leave.
“Where ya heading to?’ Daniel questioned.
“The water level of the river is too high.” he said.
“It isn’t safe to be here.”
“That river aint flooded in decades.” responded Daniel.
“I aint taking no chances, and that’s why were heading to Georgia till these storms pass.” he retorted.
The two men exchanged their goodbyes and Daniel continued off for work. He stopped and gazed in awe of the Jameson river, for it seemingly stretched on for eternity. But then he noticed something that filled him with an incredible horror. The once placid river was swelling and growing angry.
The wind was whipping through Jameson with the fury of a dozen freight trains. The rain was coming down in torrents, and the river slowly consumed the town. Daniel had taken refuge in his attic, but he seriously doubted if it would sufficiently protect him from the still rising water. The fear had taken over him, and it felt as though his chest would cave in. He had spent hours in his attic sobbing because he was cold, wet, and frightened. He wept himself to sleep only to be awakened by the sound of screams that were not his own. There were terribly frantic screams just outside his house that seemed to repeat in his mind infinitely. He bore a hole through his roof to investigate the cause of these screams that were tormenting him, but what he saw was much more heartbreaking than what he heard.
A small girl of only six or seven years old was clutching to a tree with every ounce of herself. The small sundress she wore had been tattered to pieces by the fierceness of the water rolling over her. Her blonde hair was brown with mud, her eyes were swollen with tears, and her face was contorted by terror. It was at that moment that fear was no longer an emotion that Daniel Whitmore knew. With a rope tied across his waist he dove in. The water rushed over him, and he was helpless. He battled it though. He fought against the current until every muscle in his body burned. He felt as thought his whole body would burst, but still he battled. He inched closer and closer to the little girl. The river continued to roar violently until at last he reached the end of his rope. It was not long enough, and the little girl was swept into the abyss.
When the river receded the town no longer existed. It was a barren wasteland of mud and debris. The few who survived walked about the rubble looking for their belongings or loved ones. Daniel’s eyes were filled with despair. He felt as though all hope was lost, and he hung his head to cry. But when he did he saw something so unimaginable and beautiful that his tears faded away. Amongst all the destruction and devastation a rose was protruding from the debris. He was mesmerized, not because of its vivid hue, but because it survived. It had prevailed, and so could he. And at that moment the sun peaked over the clouds and a brilliant luminosity covered Jameson.
Life, like the river, has swallowed men up and left no remnant of their existence. Still, there is hope. There is always hope. There is no destruction so massive as to exhaust the infinite hope of the human heart. It could rain for a hundred years or a hundred centuries, but as long as there is life there is hope. And Life, like the river, rolls on evermore.