Works of Fiction

Now I realize quite fully how stereotypical this may seem, but I impart to the reader fully the direct truth of this matter. 

As soon as he stepped out of the back of his limousine, he was shielded by an umbrella from his chauffeur. Just then a bolt of lightning cracked across the sky splitting a nearby tree.

Ben walked silently down the barren road; nothing could be seen for many miles, empty houses stacked upon empty houses. Trees had begun to grow from windows already, it had only been four years since everyone died. Four years six months, two weeks, and six days since the world ended, he thought. Well, the world wasn’t “over” yet it is pretty darn close he added to his mental conversation with himself. Ben Warner’s hands were shoved deep into the pockets of the army blazer jacket that he loved so much.

​The day was dreary, though unlike last time it wasn't raining, though the sky did forebode such precipitation. I looked out the window at the prophetic clouds and swirled the now cold coffee in my mug. I frowned at it and wished that it would heat itself up, yet I held none such mystic abilities. In a state of depression, I removed my brand-new Blackberry Pearl cellphone and checked the clock